Columbia  5ftnit)ersttp 

tntljeCttpuflSrttigork 

THE  LIBRARIES 


TRUE  STORIES  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 


TRUE    STORIES 

OF  THE 

GREAT    WAR 


TALES   OF  ADVENTURE— HEROIC  DEEDS— EXPLOITS 

TOLD  BY  THE  SOLDIERS,  OFFICERS,  NURSES, 

DIPLOMATS,  EYE  WITNESSES 


Collected  in  Six  Volumes 

From  Official  and  Authoritative  Sources 

{See  Introductory  to  Volume  I) 


VOLUME  I 


Editor-in-Chief 

FRANCIS  TREVELYAN  MILLER   (Litt.  D.,  LL.D.) 

Editor  of  The  Search-Light  Library 


•      1917 
REVIEW  OF.REVTF.WSCOMf  ANY 
MEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  COMPANY 


TRUE  STORIES  OF  THE 
^-  GREAT  WAR 

INTRODUCTORY 

Thirty  million  soldiers,  each  living  a  great  human 
story— this  is  the  real  drama  of  the  Great  War  as  it  is 
being  written  into  the  hearts  and  memories  of  the  men 
at  the  front.  If  these  soldiers  could  be  gathered  around 
one  camp-fire,  and  each  soldier  could  relate  the  most 
thrilling  moment  of  his  experience— what  stories  we 
would  hear!  "Don  Quioxte,"  the  "Arabian  Nights," 
Dante's  "Inferno,"  Milton's  "Paradise  Lost,  and  Re- 
gained"—all  the  legends  and  tales  of  the  world's  liter- 
ature out-told  by  the  soldiers  themselves. 

It  is  from  the  lips  of  these  soldiers,  and  those  who 
have  passed  through  the  tragedy  of  the  war— the  women 
and  children  whose  eyes  have  beheld  the  inferno  and 
whose  souls  have  been  uplifted  by  suffering  and  self- 
sacrifice— the  generations  will  hear  the  epic  of  the  day£ 
when  millions  of  men  gave  their  lives  to  "make  the  world 
safe  for  Democracy."  The  magnitude  of  this  gigantic 
struggle  against  autocracy  is  such  that  human  imagina- 
tion cannot  visualize  it— it  requires  one  to  stand  face  to 
face  with  death  itself. 

A  member  of  the  British  War  Staff  estimates  that 
more  than  a  million  letters  a  day  are  passing  from  the 
trenches  and  bases  of  the  various  armies  "to  the  folk- 
back  home."  Another  observer  at  the  General  Head- 
quarters of  one  of  the  armies  estimates  that  more  than 
a  million  and  a  half  diaries  are  being  kept  by  the  soldiers. 


ii  True  Stories  of  the  Great  IV ar 

It  is  in  these  words,  inscribed  by  bleeding  bodies  and 
suffering  hearts,  that  posterity  is  to  hear  True  Stories  of 
the  Great  War. 

It  is  the  purpose  of  these  volumes,  therefore,  to  begin 
the  preservation  of  these  soldiers'  stories.  This  is  the 
first  collection  that  has  been  made;  it  is  in  itself  an  his- 
toric event.  The  manner  in  which  this  service  has  been 
performed  may  be  of  interest  to  the  reader.  It  was  my 
privilege  to  appoint  a  committee,  or  board  of  editors,  to 
collect  stories  from  soldiers  in  the  various  armies — per- 
sonal letters,  records  of  personal  experiences,  reminis- 
cences, and  all  other  available  material.  An  exhaustive 
investigation  has  been  made  into  the  files  of  European 
and  American  periodicals  to  find  the  various  narratives 
that  have  "crept  into  print." 

More  than  eight  thousand  stories  were  considered.  The 
vast  amount  of  human  material  would  require  innumer- 
able volumes  to  preserve  it.  It  was  the  judgment  of  the 
committee  that  this  documentary  evidence  could  be 
brought  into  practical  limitations  by  selecting  a  sufficient 
number  of  narratives  to  cover  every  human  phase  of  the 
Great  War  and  preserve  them  in  six  volumes. 

This  first  collection  of  "True  Stories"  forms  what 
might  be  termed  a  "story-history"  of  the  Great  War,  al- 
though all  chronological  plan  is  purposely  avoided  in 
order  to  preserve  the  story-teller's  "reality"  rather  than 
the  historian's  record. 

These  volumes  are  in  the  nature  of  a  "Round  Table" 
in  which  soldiers,  refugees,  nurses,  eye-witnesses — all 
gather  about  the  pages  and  relate  the  most  thrilling  epi- 
sodes of  their  war  experiences.  We  hear  the  tales  of  the 
soldiers  who  invaded  Belgium,  through  the  campaigns 
and  battles  on  all  the  fronts,  to  the  landing  of  the  Amer- 
ican troops  in  France.  Diplomats  tell  of  the  scenes  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war;  despatch  bearers  relate  their 


Introductory  m 

missions  of  danger  from  Paris  to  Berlin,  London,  Vienna, 
Petrograd;  refugees  describe  the  flight  of  the  Belgians, 
the  exodus  of  the  Serbians,  the  invasion  of  Poland.  Emis- 
saries at  General  Headquarters  tell  of  their  dinners  with 
the  Kaiser  and  the  Crown  Prince,  with  Hindenburg  and 
Zimmerman,  and  describe  the  scenes  inside  the  German 
empire.  Soldiers  from  the  Marne,  the  Aisne,  Verdun- 
relate  their  experiences.  We  listen  to  passengers  tossed 
into  the  sea  from  the  Lusitania;  revolutionists  who  over- 
threw the  Czar  in  Russia ;  exiles  returning  from  Siberia. 
We  hear  the  tales  of  the  fighters  from  South  Africa, 
Egypt,  Turkey ;  stories  from  the  Far  East  along  the  seas 
of  China.  The  lieutenant  of  the  Emden  relates  his  ad- 
ventures. There  are  stories  told  by  Kitchener's  "mob"; 
the  "fighting  Irish,"  Scottish  Highlanders,  the  Canadians, 
the  Australians,  the  Hindus.  The  French  hussars  and 
poilus  tell  of  their  experiences ;  the  Italians  in  the  Alps, 
the  Austrians  in  the  Carpathians— the  stories  cover  the 
whole  world  and  every  race  and  nation. 

These  personal  narratives  reveal  the  psychology  of  war 
in  all  its  horrible  reality— modern  warfare  on  its  gigantic 
scale— the  genius  of  invention  and  organization  applied 
to  destruction.  They  reveal,  moreover,  the  psychology  of 
human  nature  and  human  emotions  in  all  their  moods 
and  passions.  The  first  impression  is  of  the  physical  hor- 
ror of  the  war,  but  this  is  soon  overcome  by  the  higher 
spirituality  that  impels  men  to  sacrifice  their  lives  for 
civilization  and  humanity.  The  stories  sink  at  times  into 
grossest  brutality  only  to  rise  to  the  heights  of  nobility 
on  the  part  of  the  sufferers.  Officers  tell  of  the  charges 
of  their  battalions ;  the  men  in  the  trenches  tell  of  the 
"nights  of  terror";  spies  tell  of  their  secret  missions; 
nurses  deliver  the  death-messages  of  the  dying;  priests 
tell  how  they  carry  the  Cross  of  Christ  to  the  bloody 
fields ;  the  prisoners  tell  the  "inside  story  of  the  prisons" ; 


hr  True  Stories  of  the  Great  War 

aviators  relate  their  death-duels  in  the  air;  submarine 
officers  tell  how  they  torpedo  and  capture  the  enemies' 
ships.  There  is  testimony  from  the  lips  of  women  who 
were  ravaged ;  children  who  were  brutally  mutilated ;  wit- 
nesses who  saw  soldiers  crucified ;  soldiers  lashed  to  their 
guns;  babies  torn  from  their  mothers'  arms;  homes  in 
flames  and  ruins,  cathedrals  desecrated. 

And  yet  there  is  an  undercurrent  of  humanity  in  these 
human  documents.  In  their  physical  aspect  they  are 
almost  beyond  human  belief — but  there  is  a  certain  spirit- 
ual force  running  through  them.  There  is  a  nobility  in 
them  that  rises  above  all  the  physical  anguish. 

These  stories  (and  this  war)  reveal  the  souls  of  men 
as  has  nothing  before  in  modern  times.  The  war  has 
taught  men  "how  to  die."  These  men  have  lost  all  fear 
of  death.  They  have  traveled  the  road  of  the  cruci- 
fixion and  stood  before  Calvary ;  they  have  caught  a 
glimpse  of  something  finer,  nobler,  truer  than  their  own 
individual  existence.  Through  suffering  and  self-sacri- 
fice they  have  risen  to  the  noblest  heights.  They  have 
found  something  that  we  who  have  not  faced  death  in 
the  trenches  may  never  find — they  have  felt  an  exaltation 
in  mind  and  body  that  we  may  never  know.  There  is 
the  fire  of  the  Old  Crusaders  about  them;  they  have 
caught  the  realization  of  the  glory  of  humanity  as  they 
march  into  the  face  of  death.  It  is  interesting  to  observe 
that  wherever  the  story-teller  is  fighting  for  a  principle, 
he  sees  no  horror  in  war  or  death.  It  is  only  where  he 
thinks  of  his  individual  suffering,  where  his  thoughts  are 
of  his  own  physical  self,  that  he  complains. 

And  there  is  even  humor  in  these  stories ;  we  see  men 
laughing  at  death ;  we  see  the  wounded  smiling  and  tell- 
ing humorous  tales  of  their  suffering;  there  is  irony, 
cajolery,  good-natured  satire,  and  loud  outbursts  of 
laughter.     And  there  is  tenderness  in  them — kindness, 


Introductory  v 

gentleness,  devotion,  affection,  and  love.  We  find  in 
them  every  human  passion — and  every  divine  emotion. 
They  form  a  new  insight  into  character  and  manhood — 
they  inspire  us  with  a  new  and  deeper  faith  in  humanity. 

The  committee  in  making  these  selections  found  that 
many  of  the  human  documents  of  the  Great  War  are 
being  preserved  by  the  British,  French,  and  German  pub^ 
lishing  houses,  but  it  is  the  American  publishers  who  are 
performing  the  greatest  service  in  the  preservation  of  war 
literature.  We  have  given  consideration  wherever  pos- 
sible to  the  notable  work  that  is  being  done  by  our 
American  colleagues.  While  we  have  selected  from  all 
sources  what  we  consider  to  be  the  best  stories  of  the 
war,  giving  full  recognition  in  every  instance  to  the  origi- 
nal sources,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  state  that  our  Americart 
periodicals  have  been  given  the  preference.  They  cor- 
dially co-operated  with  us  in  this  undertaking  and  we 
trust  the  public  will  show  their  due  appreciation.  We 
would  especially  call  attention  to  the  list  of  books  and 
publishers  recorded  in  the  contents  pages  of  the  several 
volumes ;  also  to  the  periodicals  which  are  preserving 
many  of  the  human  stories  of  the  war.  These  will  form 
the  basis  for  much  of  the  literature  of  the  future. 

As  editor-in-chief  of  these  volumes,  I  desire  further 
to  give  full  recognition  to  my  associates:.  Mr.  M.  M. 
Lourens,  of  the  University  of  Leyden ;  Mr.  Egbert  Gilliss 
Handy,  founder  of  The  Search-Light  Libra-y;  Mr. 
Walter  R.  Bickford,  former  managing  editor  of  The 
Journal  of  American  History ;  and  the  staff  of  inves- 
tigators at  The  Search-Light  Library  who  made  the 
extensive  researches  and  comprehensive  bibliographies — 
covering  the  whole  range  of  literature  on  The  Great 
War — required  as  a  basis  for  the  production  of  these 
books. 

Francis  Trevelyan   Miller. 


CONTENTS 


The  Board  of  Editors  in  accordance  with  the  plan  outlined  in  "Intro- 
ductory" for  collecting  the  "Best  Stories  of  the  War,"  has  selected 
this  group  of  stories  for  VOLUME  I  from  the  most  authentic 
sources  in  Europe  and  America.  This  volume  includes  179  episodes 
and  tales  of  adventure  told  by  twenty-six  story-tellers— Soldiers, 
Staff  Observers,  Officers,  Despatch  Riders,  Cavalrymen,  Aviators, 
Nurses,  Prisoners,  Raiders,  Secret  Service  Men  and  American 
soldiers.  Full  credit  is  given  in  every  instance  to  the  original 
sources. 

VOLUME   I— TWENTY-SIX  STORV-TELLERS-170  EPISODES 

STORIES   OF   THE    THREE    MEN    WHO    CAUSED    THE    WORLD 

WAR 1 

"HOW  I  MET  THE  KAISER,   CROWN  PRINCE  AND  ARCH- 
DUKE" 
Told    by    Hall    Caine 
(Permission  of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company) 

MY  VISIT  TO  KING   ALBERT— THE   KINO  WHOSE   THRONE   IS 

THE  HEARTS  OF  HIS  PEOPLE 8 

"I  AM  BOUND  ON  A  MISSION  FROM  THE  PRESIDENT  QF 

FRANCE" 
Told  by  Pierre  Loti 
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"VIVE   LA   FRANCE"— HOW  THEY   DIE   FOR  THEIR   COUNTRY      23 

LAST   MESSAGES   OF   FRENCH   SOLDIERS 

Told   by   Rene   Bazin 
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FOR     GOD     AND     ITALY— BREATHING     DEATH     WITH     THE 

ITALIANS 29 

"WHERE  MINUTES  ARE  ETERNAL" 
Told  by  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 
(Permission    of    London    Telegraph) 

THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  RUSSIANS  IN  FIGHT  FOR  LIBERTY  .        .      36 

"THE    DESERTED    BATTLEFIELDS    I    HAVE    SEEN" 
Told  by  Count  Ilya  Tolstoy 
^Permission  of  Current  History) 

(Volume  I) 


CONTENTS 

MY    EXPERIENCES    IN    THE    WAR    HOSPITALS    OF    RUMANIA      44 

THE  HORRORS  OF  THE  LITTLE  BALKAN   KINGDOM 
Told    by    Queen    Marie    of    Rumania 
(Permission   of   Philadelplua   Public   Ledger) 

"WITH    THE    GERMAN    ARMIES    IN    THE    WEST"— VISITS    TO 

THE   GENERAL   STAFF 49 

Told   by    Sven    Hedin 
(Permission    of   John    Lane    Company) 

"THE     FIRST     HUNDRED     THOUSAND"-WITH     KITCHENER'S 

ARMY     IN     FRANCE 73 

STORIES  STRAIGHT  FROM  THE  TRENCHES 

Told  by  Captain  Ian  Hay  Beith 
(Permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company) 

SOME    EXPERIENCES    IN    HUNGARY «7 

IN  THE  PALACE  OF  PRINCE  AND  PRINCESS  K 

Told  by   Mina    Macdonald 
(Permission   of   Longmans,   Green    and   Company) 

••FORCED    TO    FIGHT"— THE    TALE    OF    A    SCHLESWIO    DANE    117 

"WHAT  MY  EYES  WITNESSED  IN  EAST  PRUSSIA" 
Told   by    Eric   Erichsen 
(Permission  of  Robert  M.   McBride  and  Company) 

••ADVENTURES  OF  A  DESPATCH  RIDER" 133 

AN  OXFORD  MAN   WITH  THE  MOTORCYCLISTS 
Told  by  Capt.   W.   H.   L.   Watson 
(Permission  of  Dodd,   Mead  and  Company) 

WITH     A    B.-P.    SCOUT     IN     GALLIPOLI— ON    THE     TURKISH 

FRONTIER  155 

A   RECORD   OF   THE   BELTON   BULLDOGS 
Told  by    Edmund   Yerbury   Priestman 
(Permission    of   E.    P,    Dutton    and    Company) 

"IN  THE  FIELD"— THE  STORIES  OF  THE  FRENCH  CHASSEURS    165 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  AN  OFFICER  OF  LIGHT  CAVALRY 
Told  by  Lieut.   Marcel   Dupont 
(Permission   of  J.    B.    Lippincott   Company) 

••FIELD   HOSPITAL  AND   FLYING  COLUMN"— IN   RUSSIA   .       .    181 

JOURNAL  OF  AN  ENGLISH  NURSING  SISTER 
Told  by  Violetta  Thurston 
(Permission   of   G.    P.    Putnam's   Sons) 

(Volume  I) 


CONTENTS 

AN   UNCENSORED   DIARY-FROM   THE   CENTRAL   EMPIRES     .    192 

AT  THE  AMERICAN   EMBASSY  IN  COPENHAGEN 
Told  by   Ernesta   Drinker   Bullitt 
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"A  STUDENT  IN  ARMS"— IN  THE  RANKS  WITH   KITCHENER'S 

ARMY 209 

RESURRECTION  OF  THE  SOUL  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELD 
Told  by  Donald  Hankey 
(Permission  of  E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company) 

"THE    RED    HORIZON"— STORIES   OP   THE    LONDON    IRISH    .     .    217 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  ROSARY 
Told    by    Patrick    MacGill 

(Permission  of  George  H.  Doran  Company) 

MY  TRIP  TO  VERDUN— GENERAL  PETAIN  FACE  TO  FACE        .    225 

FROM  GRAVES  OF  THE  MARNE  TO  HILLS  OF  THE  MEUSE 
Told    by    Frank    H.    Simonds 

(Permission    of    American    Review    of    Reviews) 

UNDER    THE    STARS   AND    STRIPES— WITH    AMERICAN    ARMY 

IN     FRANCE 249 

STORIES  OF  AMERICAN  TROOPS  ON  ROAD  TO  FRONT 

Told  by  Lincoln  Eyre,  with   Pershing's  Army 
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WITH    THE    SERBIAN    STOICS    IN    EXILE— UNDER    THE    GER- 
MAN   YOKE 257 

EXPERIENCES  IN  THE  FLIGHT  TO  ALBANIA 
Told  by   Gordon   Gordon -Smith 
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TALES  OF  THE  TANKS— WITH  THE  ARMORED  MONSTERS  IN 

BATTLE 274 

ADVENTURES  AS  ROMANTIC  AS  MEDLAEVAL  LEGENDS 
Told  by  the  Men  in  the  Tanks 

"MY  ESCAPE  FROM  THE  TURKS  DISGUISED  AS  A  WOMAN"   .     288 

THE  STORY  OF  A  WONDERFUL  FEAT 
Told  by   Private   Miron   D.   Arber 
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TALES  OF  GERMAN  AIR  RAIDERS  OVER  LONDON  AND  PARIS    306 

"HOW  WE  DROP  BOMBS  ON  THE  ENEMIES'   CITIES" 
Told  by   the  Air  Raiders   Themselves 
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(Volume  I) 


CONTENTS 

TALES   FROM  SIBERIA-WHEN   THE   PRISON   DOORS  OPENED    316 

JOURxXEY  HOME  OF  A   HUNDRED  THOUSAND   EXILES 
Told  by   (name  withheld),  an   Eye-Witness 
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and   Literary    Digest) 

SURVIVORS'  STORIES  OF  SINKING  OF  THE   "LUSITANIA"  srs 

"HOW  WE  SAW  OUR  SHIP  GO   DOWN-TORPEDOED  BY  A 

GERMAN   SUBMARINE" 
Told  by  Passengers  of  the  Ill-Fated  "Lusitania" 

WITH  THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS  ON  THE  FIELDS  OF  FRANCE    340 

PERSONAL   EXPERIENCES    DIRECT   FROM   THE    FRONT 
(Permission  of  New  York  Sun) 


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STORIES  OF  THE  THREE  MEN  WHO 
CAUSED  THE  WORLD  WAR 

"How  I  Met  the  Kaiser,  Crown  Prince  and 
Archduke" 

Told  hy  Hall  CainCy  Famous  British  Novelist,   Who 
Offered  All  to  His  Country 

This  celebrated  novelist,  since  the  outbreak  of  the  War,  has 
fought  a  noble  battle  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  with  the  "pen 
that  is  mightier  than  the  sword."  His  appeals  to  America  have 
been  the  voice  of  a  world  patriot  calling  in  the  name  of  human- 
ity. He  presents  the  great  actors  in  vivid  pen  pictures,  the 
Kaiser,  the  Crown  Prince,  the  Archduke.  The  following  pen 
sketches  are  from  "The  Drama  of  365  Days,"  by  permission  of 
the  publishers  /.  B.  Lippincott  Company:  Copyright,  1915. 

*  I— PEN  PORTRAITS  OF  THE  KAISER 

Other  whisperings  there  were  of  the  storm  that  was 
so  soon  to  burst  on  the  world.  In  the  ominous  silence 
there  were  rumours  of  a  certain  change  that  was  coming 
over  the  spirit  of  the  Kaiser.  For  long  years  he  had 
been  credited  with  a  sincere  love  of  peace,  and  a  ceaseless 
desire  to  restrain  the  forces  about  him  that  were  making 
for  war.  Although  constantly  occupied  with  the  making 
of  a  big  army,  and  inspiring  it  with  great  ideals,  he  was 
thought  to  have  as  little  desire  for  actual  warfare  as  his 
ancestor,  Frederick  William,  had  shown,  while  gathering 
up  his  giant  guardsmen  and  refusing  to  allow  them  to 


*A11  numerals  throughout  these  volumes  are  for  the  purpose 
of  enumerating  the  various  stories  and  episodes  herein  told — 
they  have  no  relation  to  the  chapters  in  the  original  sources. 

I 


2    Stories  of  the  Three  Men  Who  Caused  the  World  War 

fight.  Particularly  it  was  believed  in  Berlin  (not  alto- 
gether graciously)  that  his  affection  for,  and  even  fear 
of  his  grandmother,  Queen  Victoria,  would  compel  him 
to  exhaust  all  efforts  to  preserve  peace  in  the  event  of 
trouble  with  Great  Britain.  But  Victoria  was  dead,  and 
King  Edward  might  perhaps  be  smiled  at — behind  his 
back — and  then  a  younger  generation  was  knocking  at 
the  Kaiser's  door  in  the  person  of  his  eldest  son,  who 
represented  forces  which  he  might  not  long  be  able  to 
hold  in  check.     How  would  he  act  now? 

Thousands  of  persons  in  this  country  had  countless 
opportunities  before  the  war  of  forming  an  estimate  of 
the  Kaiser's  character.  I  had  only  one,  and  it  was  not  of 
the  best.  For  years  the  English  traveller  abroad  felt  as 
if  he  were  always  following  in  the  track  of  a  grandiose 
personality  who  was  playing  on  the  scene  of  the  world 
as  on  a  stage,  fond  as  an  actor  of  dressing  up  in  fine 
uniforms,  of  making  pictures,  scenes,  and  impressions, 
and  leaving  his  visible  mark  behind  him — as  in  the  case 
of  the  huge  gap  in  the  thick  walls  of  Jerusalem,  torn 
down  (it  was  said  with  his  consent)  to  let  his  equipage 
pass  through. 

In  Rome  I  saw  a  man  who  was  a  true  son  of  his 
ancestors.  Never  had  the  laws  of  heredity  better  justi- 
fied themselves.  Frederick  William,  Frederick  the 
Great,  William  the  First — the  Hohenzollerns  were  all 
there.  The  glittering  eyes,  the  withered  arm,  the  features 
that  gave  signs  of  frightful  periodical  pain,  the  immense 
energy,  the  gigantic  egotism,  the  ravenous  vanity,  the 
fanaticism  amounting  to  frenzy,  the  dominating  power, 
the  dictatorial  temper,  the  indifference  to  suffering 
(whether  his  own  or  other  people's),  the  overbearing 
suppression  of  opposing  opinions,  the  determination  to 
control  everybody's  interest,  everybody's  work — I  thought 
all  this  was  written  in  the  Kaiser's  masterful  face. 


stories  of  the  Three  Men  Who  Caused  the  World  War    3 

Then  came  stories.  One  of  my  friends  in  Rome  was 
an  American  doctor  who  had  been  called  to  attend  a  lady 
of  the  Emperor's  household.  "Well,  doctor,  what's  she 
suffering  from?"  said  the  Kaiser.  The  doctor  told  him. 
"Nothing  of  the  kind — you're  entirely  wrong.  She's 
suffering  from  so  and  so,"  said  the  Majesty  of  Germany, 
stamping  up  and  down  the  room.  At  length  the  Ameri- 
can doctor  lost  control.  "Sir,"  he  said,  "in  my  country 
we  have  a  saying  that  one  bad  practitioner  is  wortli 
twenty  good  amateurs — you're  the  amateur."  The  doctor 
lived  through  it.  Frederick  William  would  have  dragged 
him  to  the  window  and  tried  to  fling  him  out  of  it. 
William  II  put  his  arm  round  the  doctor's  shoulder  and 
said,  "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  old  fellow.  Let  us  sit 
down  and  talk." 

A  soldier  came  with  another  story.  After  a  sham 
fight  conducted  by  the  Kaiser  the  generals  of  the  Ger- 
man army  had  been  summoned  to  say  what  they  thought 
of  the  Royal  manoeuvers.  All  had  formed  an  unfavour- 
able opinion,  yet  one  after  another,  with  some  insincere 
compliment,  had  wriggled  out  of  the  difficulty  of  candid 
criticism.     But  at  length  came  an  officer,  who  said: 

"Sir,  if  it  had  been  real  warfare  to-day  there  wouldn't 
be  enough  wood  in  Germany  to  make  coffins  for  the  men 
who  would  be  dead." 

The  general  lived  through  it,  too — at  first  in  a  certain 
disfavour,  but  afterwards  in  recovered  honour. 

Such  was  the  Kaiser,  who  a  year  ago  had  to  meet  the 
mighty  wind  of  War.  He  was  in  Norway  for  his  usual 
summer  holiday  in  July,  1914,  when  affairs  were  reaching 
their  crisis.  Rumour  has  it  that  he  was  not  satisfied 
with  the  measure  of  the  information  that  was  reaching 
him,  therefore  he  returned  to  Berlin,  somewhat  to  the 
discomfiture  of  his  ministers,  intending,  it  is  said,  for 
various  reasons  (not  necessarily  humanitarian)  to  stop  or 


4    Stories  of  the  Three  Men  Who  Caused  the  World  War 

at  least  postpone  the  war.  If  so,  he  arrived  too  late.  He 
was  told  that  matters  had  gone  too  far.  They  must  go 
on  now.  J'Very  well,  if  they  must,  they  must,"  he  is  re- 
ported to  have  said.  And  there  is  the  familiar  story  that 
after  he  had  signed  his  name  on  the  first  of  August  to 
the  document  that  plunged  Europe  into  the  conflict  that 
has  since  shaken  it  to  its  foundations,  he  flung  down  his 
pen  and  cried,  "You'll  live  to  regret  this,  gentlemen." 

II— PEN-PORTRAIT   OF  THE   CROWN   PRINCE 

And  then  the  Crown  Prince.  In  August  of  last  year 
nine  out  of  every  ten  of  us  would  have  said  that  not  the 
father,  but  the  son,  of  the  Royal  family  of  Germany 
had  been  the  chief  provocative  cause  of  the  war.  Sub- 
sequent events  have  lessened  the  weight  of  that  opinion. 
But  the  young  man's  known  popularity  among  an  active 
section  of  the  officers  of  the  army;  their  subterranean 
schemes  to  set  him  off  against  his  father ;  a  vague  suspi- 
cion of  the  Kaiser's  jealousy  of  his  eldest  son — all  these 
facts  and  shadows  of  facts  give  colour  to  the  impression 
that  not  least  among  the  forces  which  led  the  Emperor 
on  that  fateful  first  of  August  to  declare  war  against 
Russia  was  the  presence  and  the  importunity  of  the 
Crown  Prince.  What  kind  of  man  was  it,  then,  whom 
the  invisible  powers  of  evil  were  employing  to  precipitate 
this  insensate  struggle? 

Hundreds  of  persons  in  England,  France,  Russia  and 
Italy  must  have  met  the  Crown  Prince  of  Germany  at 
more  or  less  close  quarters,  and  formed  their  own  esti- 
mates of  his  character.  The  barbed-wire  fence  of  pro- 
tective ceremony  which  usually  surrounds  Royal  person- 
ages, concealing  their  little  human  foibles,  was  period- 
ically broken  down  in  the  case  of  the  Heir-Apparent  to 
the  German  Throne  by  his  incursion  every  winter  into  a 
small   cosmopolitan   community   which   repaired   to   the 


Stories  of  the  Three  MeniWho  Caused  the  World  War    5 

snows  of  the  Engadine  for  health  or  pleasure.  In  that; 
stark  environment  I  myself,  in  common  with  many  oth- 
ers, saw  the  descendant  of  the  Fredericks  every  day,  for 
several  weeks  of  several  years,  at  a  distance  that  called 
for  no  intellectual  field-glasses.  And  now  I  venture  to 
say,  for  whatever  it  may  be  worth,  that  the  result  was 
an  entirely  unfavourable  impression. 

I  saw  a  young  man  without  a  particle  of  natural  dis- 
tinction, whether  physical,  moral,  or  mental.  The  figure, 
long  rather  than  tall;  the  hatchet  face,  the  selfish  eyes, 
the  meaningless  mouth,  the  retreating  forehead,  the  van- 
ishing chin,  the  energy  that  expressed  itself  merely  in 
restless  movement,  achieving  little,  and  often  aiming  at 
nothing  at  all;  the  uncultivated  intellect,  the  narrow 
views  of  life  and  the  world;  the  morbid  craving  for 
change,  for  excitement  of  any  sort;  the  indifference  to 
other  people's  feelings,  the  shockingly  bad  manners,  the 
assumption  of  a  right  to  disregard  and  even  to  outrage 
the  common  conventions  on  which  social  intercourse  de- 
pends— all  this  was,  so  far  as  my  observation  enabled 
me  to  judge,  only  too  plainly  apparent  in  the  person  of 
the  Crown  Prince. 

Outside  the  narrow  group  that  gathered  about  him 
(a  group  hailing,  ironically  enough,  from  the  land  of  a 
great  Republic)  I  cannot  remember  to  have  heard  in  any 
winter  one  really  warm  word  about  him,  one  story  of  an 
act  of  kindness,  or  even  generous  condescension,  such  as 
it  is  easy  for  a  royal  personage  to  perform.  On  the 
contrary,  I  was  constantly  hearing  tales  of  silly  fooleries, 
of  overbearing  behaviour,  of  deliberate  rudeness,  such  as 
irresistibly  recalled,  in  spirit  if  not  in  form,  the  conduct 
of  the  common  barrator  in  the  guise  of  a  king,  who,  if 
Macaulay's  stories  are  to  be  credited,  used  to  kick  a  lady 
in  the  open  streets  and  tell  her  to  go  home  and  mind 
her  brats. 


6   Stories  of  the  Three  Men  Who  Caused  the  World  War 

III— PEN-PORTRAIT  OF  THE  ARCHDUKE 
FERDINAND 

Then  the  Archduke  Ferdinand  of  Austro-Hungar}% 
whose  assassination  was  the  ostensible  cause  of  this 
devastating  war — what  kind  of  man  was  he?  Quite  a 
different  person  from  the  Crown  Prince,  and  yet,  so 
far  as  I  could  judge,  just  as  little  worthy  of  the  appalling 
sacrifice  of  human  life  which  his  death  has  occasioned. 

Not  long  before  his  tragic  end  I  spent  a  month  under 
the  same  roof  with  him,  and  though  the  house  was  only 
an  hotel,  it  was  situated  in  a  remote  place,  and  though 
I  was  not  in  any  sense  of  the  Archduke's  party,  I  walked 
and  talked  frequently  with  most  of  the  members  of  it, 
and  so,  with  the  added  help  of  daily  observation,  came 
to  certain  conclusions  about  the  character  of  the  principal 
personage. 

A  middle-aged  man,  stifif-set,  heavy-jawed,  with  a 
strong  step,  and  a  short  manner;  obviously  proud,  re- 
served, silent,  slightly  imperious,  self-centred,  self-opin- 
ionated, well-educated  in  the  kind  of  knowledge  all  such 
men  must  possess,  but  narrow  in  intellect,  retrograde  in 
sympathy,  a  stickler  for  social  conventions,  an  almost 
unyielding  upholder  of  royal  rights,  prerogatives,  cus- 
toms, and  usages  (although  by  his  own  marriage  he  had 
violated  one  of  the  first  of  the  laws  of  his  class,  and  by 
his  unfailing  fidelity  to  his  wife  continued  to  resist  it), 
superstitious  rather  than  religious,  an  immense  admirer  of 
the  Kaiser,  and  a  decidedly  hostile  critic  of  our  own 
country — such  was  the  general  impression  made  on  one 
British  observer  by  the  Archduke  Ferdinand. 

The  man  is  dead;  he  took  no  part  in  the  war,  except 
unwittingly  by  the  act  of  dying,  and  therefore  one  could 
wish  to  speak  of  him  with  respect  and  restraint.  Other- 
wise it  might  be  possible  to  justify  this  estimate  of  his 


Stories  of  the  Three  Men  Who  Caused  the  World  War    y 

character  by  the  narration  of  little  incidents,  and  one 
such,  though  trivial  in  itself,  may  perhaps  bear  descrip- 
tion. The  younger  guests  of  the  hotel  in  the  mountains 
had  got  up  a  fancy  dress  ball,  and  among  persons  clad 
in  all  conceivable  costumes,  including  those  of  monks, 
cardinals,  and  even  popes,  a  lady  of  demure  manners, 
who  did  not  dance,  had  come  downstairs  in  the  habit  of  a 
nun.  This  aroused  the  superstitious  indignation  of  the 
Archduke,  who  demanded  that  the  lady  should  retire  from 
the  room  instantly,  or  he  would  order  his  carriage  and 
leave  the  hotel  at  once. 

Of  course,  the  inevitable  happened — the  Archduke's 
will  became  law,  and  the  lady  went  upstairs  in  tears, 
while  I  and  two  or  three  others  (Catholics  among  us) 
thought  and  said,  "Heaven  help  Europe  when  the  time 
comes  for  its  destinies  to  depend  largely  on  the  judg- 
ment of  a  man  whose  bemuddled  intellect  cannot  dis- 
tinguish between  morality  of  the  real  world  and  of  an 
entirely  fantastic  and  fictitious  one." 

(Hall  Caine  in  his  pen  portraits  from  the  War  describes 
"A  Conversation  with  Lord  Roberts" ;  "The  Motherhood 
of  France" ;  "The  Russian  Soul" ;  "The  Soul  of  Poland"  ; 
"The  Part  Played  by  Italy,"  and  sixty-two  dramatic 
sketches.) 


MY   VISIT   TO   KING   ALBERT— THE 

KING  WHOSE  THRONE  IS  THE 

HEARTS  OF  HIS  PEOPLE 

"I  Am  Bound  on  a  Mission  from  the  President 
of  France'' 

Told  hy  Pierre  Loti,   of   the  French  Academy,   and 
Captain  in   the  French  Navy 

This  master  of  the  modern  school  of  French  letters  offered  his 
services  to  his  Country  at  the  outbreak  of  the  War.  As  Cap- 
tain Julien  Viaud,  of  the  Naval  Reserve,  this  famous  author 
was  assigned  to  the  dockyards.  He  longed  for  more  active 
service  and  appealed  to  the  Minister  of  Marine :  "I  should 
accept  with  joy,  with  pride,  any  position  whatsoever  that  would 
bring  me  nearer  to  the  fighting  line,  even  if  it  were  a  very  sub- 
ordinate post,  one  much  below  the  dignity  of  my  five  rows  of 
gold  braid."  With  his  masterful  touch  Pierre  Loti  is  immor- 
talizing the  War  in  literature.  The  story  here  told  of  his  visit 
to  King  Albert,  of  Belgium,  is  from  his  notable  story  entitled 
"War"  in  which  he  describes  with  simple  but  touching  words 
his  encounters  with  wounded  soldiers,  sisters  of  mercy  and 
homeless  little  Belgian  orphans.  This  one  story  from  his  book 
of  twenty-five  inspiring  chapters  is  reproduced  by  permission  of 
his  publishers,  /.  B.  Ltppincott  Company:  Copyright  1917. 

I_"ON  MY  WAY  TO  GENERAL  HEADQUAR- 
TERS OF  THE  BELGIAN  ARMY" 

To-day  on  my  way  to  the  General  Headquarters  of  the 
Belgian  Army,  whither  I  am  bound  on  a  mission  from 
the  President  of  the  French  Republic  to  His  Majesty 
IKing  Albert,  I  pass  through  Furnes,  another  town  wan- 
tonly and  savagely  bombarded,  where  at  this  hour  of  the 

8 


My  Visit  to  King  Albert  9 

day  there  is  a  raging  storm  of  icy  wind,  snow,  rain,  and 
hail,  under  a  black  sky.  ,    .       ,    i  , 

Here  as  at  Ypres  the  barbarians  bent  their  whole  soul 
on  the  destruction  of  the  historical  part,  the  charming 
old  town  hall  and  its  surroundings.  It  is  here  that  King 
Albert,  driven  forth  from  his  palace,  established  himself 
at  first.  Thereupon  the  Germans,  with  that  delicacy  of 
feeling  to  which  at  present  no  one  in  the-world  disputes 
their  claim,  immediately  made  this  place  their  objective, 
in  order  to  bombard  it  with  their  brutal,  heavy  shells.  I 
need  hardly  say  that  there  was  scarcely  anyone  in  the 
streets,  where  I  slowed  down  my  motor  so  that  I  might 
have  leisure  for  a  better  appreciation  of  the  effects  of 
the  Kaiser's  "work  of  civilisation" ;  there  were  only  some 
groups  of  soldiers,  fully  armed,  some  with  their  coat- 
collars  turned  up,  others  with  the  back  curtains  of  their 
service-caps  turned  down.  They  hastened  along  in  the 
squalls,  running  like  children,  and  laughing  good-hum- 
ouredly,  as  if  it  were  very  amusing,  this  downpour,  which 
for  once  was  not  of  fire. 

How  is  it  that  there  is  no  atmosphere  of  sadness  about 
this  half-empty  town?  It  is  as  if  the  gaiety  of  these 
soldiers,  in  spite  of  the  gloomy  weather,  had  communi- 
cated itself  to  the  ruined  surroundings.  And  how  full  of 
splendid  health  and  spirits  they  seem!  I  see  no  more 
on  any  faces  that  somewhat  startled,  haggard  expression, 
common  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The  outdoor  Ufe, 
combined  with  good  food,  has  bronzed  the  cheeks  of 
these  men  whom  the  shrapnel  has  spared,  but  their  prin- 
cipal support  and  stay  is  their  complete  confidence,  their 
conviction  that  they  have  already  gained  the  upper  hand 
and  are  marching  to  victory.  The  invasion  of  the 
Boches  will  pass  away  like  this  horrible  weather,  which 
after  all  is  only  a  last  shower  of  March ;  it  will  all  come 
to  an  end. 


10  My  Visit  to  King  Albert 

II--"I  CAME  UPON  A  LITTLE  KNOT  OF 
FRENCH  SAILORS  IN  THE  STORM" 

At  a  turning,  during  a  lull  in  the  storm,  I  come  very 
unexpectedly  upon  a  little  knot  of  French  sailors.  I 
cannot  refrain  from  beckoning  to  them,  as  one  would 
beckon  to  children  whom  one  had  suddenly  found  again 
in  some  distant  jungle,  and  they  come  running  to  the 
door  of  my  car  equally  delighted  to  see  someone  in  naval 
uniform.  They  seem  to  be  picked  men ;  they  have  such 
gallant,  comely  faces  and  such  frank,  spirited  eyes. 
Other  sailors,  too,  who  were  passing  by  at  a  little  dis- 
tance and  whom  I  had  not  called,  come  likewise  and 
surround  me  as  if  it  were  the  natural  thing  to  do,  but 
with  respectful  familiarity,  for  are  we  not  in  a  strange 
country,  and  at  war  ?  Only  yesterday,  they  tell  me,  they 
arrived  a  whole  battalion  strong,  with  their  officers,  and 
they  are  camping  in  a  neighbouring  village  while  wait- 
ing to  "down"  the  Boches.  And  I  should  like  so  much 
to  make  a  detour  and  pay  them  a  visit  in  their  own  camp 
if  I  were  not  pressed  for  time,  tied  down  to  the  hour  of 
my  audience  with  His  Majesty.  Indeed  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  associate  with  our  soldiers,  but  it  is  a  still 
greater  delight  to  associate  with  our  sailors,  among  whom 
I  passed  forty  years  of  my  life.  Even  before  I  caught 
sight  of  them,  just  from  hearing  them  talk,  I  could  recog- 
nise them  for  what  they  were.  More  than  once,  on  our 
military  thoroughfares  in  the  north,  on  a  pitch-dark  night, 
when  it  was  one  of  their  detachments  who  stopped  me  to 
demand  the  password,  I  have  recognised  them  simply  by 
the  sound  of  their  voices. 

One  of  our  generals,  army  commander  on  the  Northern 
Front,  was  speaking  to  me  yesterday  of  that  pleasant, 
kindly  familiarity  which  prevails  from  the  highest  to  the 
lowest  grade  of  the  military  ladder,  and  which  is  a  new 


My  Visit  to  King  Albert  II 

tone  characteristic  of  this  essentially  national  war  in 
which  we  all  march  hand  in  hand. 

"In  the  trenches,"  he  said  to  me,  "if  I  stop  to  talk  to 
a  soldier,  other  soldiers  gather  round  me  so  that  I  may 
talk  to  them  too.  And  they  are  becoming  more  and 
more  admirable  for  their  high  spirits  and  their  brother- 
liness.  If  only  our  thousands  of  dead  could  be  restored 
to  us  what  a  benefit  this  war  would  have  bestowed  upon 
us,  drawing  us  near  together,  until  we  all  possess  but 
one  heart." 

It  is  a  long  way  to  the  General  Headquarters.  Out 
in  the  open  country  the  weather  is  appalling  beyond 
description.  The  roads  are  broken  up,  fields  flooded 
until  they  resemble  marshes,  and  sometimes  there  are 
trenches,  chevaux  de  frise,  reminding  the  traveller  that 
the  barbarians  are  still  very  near.  And  yet  all  this,  which 
ought  to  be  depressing,  no  longer  succeeds  in  being  so. 
Every  meeting  with  soldiers — and  the  car  passes  them 
every  minute — is  sufficient  to  restore  your  serenity. 
They  have  all  the  same  cheerful  faces,  expressive  of 
courage  and  gaiety.  Even  the  poor  sappers,  up  to  their 
knees  in  water,  working  hard  to  repair  the  shelter  pits  and 
defences,  have  an  expression  of  gaiety  under  their  drip- 
ping service-caps.  What  numbers  of  soldiers  there  are 
in  the  smallest  villages,  Belgian  and  French,  very  frater- 
nally intermingling.  By  what  wonderful  organisation  ot 
the  commissariat  are  these  men  housed  and  fed? 

But  who  asserted  that  there  were  no  Belgian  soldiers 
left?  On  the  contrary,  I  pass  imposing  detachments  on 
their  way  to  the  front,  in  good  order,  admirably  equipped, 
and  of  fine  bearing,  with  a  convoy  of  excellent  artillery 
of  the  very  latest  pattern.  Never  can  enough  be  said  in 
praise  of  the  heroism  of  a  people  who  had  every  reason 
for  not  preparing  themselves  for  war,  since  they  were 
under  the  protection  of  solemn  treaties  that  should  have 


12  My  Visit  to  King  Albert 

preserved  them  forever  from  any  such  necessity,  yet 
who,  nevertheless,  sustained  and  checked  the  brunt  of 
the  attack  of  the  great  barbarism.  Disabled  at  first  and 
almost  annihilated,  yet  they  are  recovering  themselves 
and  gathering  around  their  sublimely  heroic  king. 

Ill— "WE  ARRIVE  AT  LAST— I  SEE  THE  KING" 

It  is  raining,  raining,  and  we  are  numb  with  cold,  but 
we  have  arrived  at  last,  and  in  another  moment  I  shall 
see  him,  the  King,  without  reproach  and  without  fear. 
Were  it  not  for  these  troops  and  all  these  service  motor 
cars,  it  would  be  impossible  to  believe  that  this  remote 
village  was  the  General  Headquarters.  I  have  to  leave 
the  car,  for  the  road  which  leads  to  the  royal  residence 
is  nothing  more  than  a  footpath.  Among  the  rough 
motor  cars  standing  there,  all  stained  with  mud  from  the 
roads,  there  is  one  car  of  superior  design,  having  no 
armorial  bearings  of  any  kind,  nothing  but  two  letters 
traced  in  chalk  on  the  black  door,  S.M.  {Sa  Majeste), 
for  this  is  his  car.  In  this  charming  corner  of  ancient 
Flanders,  in  an  old  abbey,  surrounded  by  trees  and  tombs, 
here  is  his  dwelling.  Out  in  the  rain,  on  the  path  which 
borders  on  the  little  sacred  cemetery,  an  aide-de-camp 
comes  to  meet  me,  a  man  with  the  charm  and  simplicitv 
that  no  doubt  likewise  characterise  his  sovereign.  There 
are  no  guards  at  the  entrance  to  the  dwelling,  and  no 
ceremony  is  observed.  At  the  end  of  an  unimposing  cor- 
ridor where  I  have  just  time  to  remove  my  overcoat,  in 
the  embrasure  of  an  opening  door,  the  King  appears, 
erect,  tall,  slender,  with  regular  features  and  a  surpris- 
ing air  of  youth,  with  frank  eyes,  gentle  and  noble  in 
expression,  stretching  out  his  hand  in  kindly  welcome. 

In  the  course  of  my  life  other  kings  and  emperors 
have  been  gracious  enough  to  receive  me,  but  in  spite  of 


My  Visit  to  King  Albert  13 

pomp,  in  spite  of  the  splendour  of  some  of  their  palaces, 
I  have  never  yet  felt  such  reverence  for  sovereign  maj- 
esty as  here,  on  the  threshold  of  this  little  house,  where 
it  is  infinitely  exalted  by  calamity  and  self -sacrifice ;  and 
when  I  express  this  sentiment  to  King  Albert  he  replies 
with  a  smile,  **Oh,  as  for  my  palace,"  and  he  completes 
his  phrase  with  a  negligent  wave  of  the  hand,  indicating 
his  humble  surroundings.  It  is  indeed  a  simple  room 
that  I  have  just  entered,  yet  by  the  mere  absence  of  all 
vulgarity,  still  possessing  distinction.  A  bookcase 
crowded  with  books  occupies  the  whole  of  one  wall ;  in 
the  background  there  is  an  open  piano  with  a  music-book 
on  the  stand;  in  the  middle  a  large  table,  covered  with 
maps  and  strategic  plans ;  and  the  window,  open  in  spite 
of  the  cold,  looks  out  on  to  a  little  old-world  garden, 
like  that  of  a  parish  priest,  almost  completely  enclosed, 
stripped  of  its  leaves,  melancholy,  weeping,  as  it  were, 
the  rains  of  winter. 

After  I  have  executed  the  simple  mission  entrusted  to 
me  by  the  President  of  the  Republic,  the  King  graciously 
detains  me  a  long  time  in  conversation.  But  if  I  felt 
reluctant  to  write  even  the  beginning  of  these  notes,  still 
more  do  I  hesitate  to  touch  upon  this  interview,  even 
with  the  utmost  discretion,  and  then  how  colourless  will 
it  seem,  all  that  I  shall  venture  to  say!  It  is  because 
in  truth  I  know  that  he  never  ceases  to  enjoin  upon 
those  around  him,  "Above  all,  see  that  people  do  not 
talk  about  me,"  because  I  know  and  understand  so  well 
the  horror  he  professes  for  anything  resembling  an  "in- 
terview." So  then  at  first  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
silent,  and  yet  when  there  is  an  opportunity  of  making 
himself  heard,  who  would  not  long  to  help  to  spread 
abroad,  to  the  utmost  of  his  small  ability,  the  renown  of 
such  a  name? 

Very  striking  in  the  first  place  is  the  sincere  and  ex- 


14  My  Visit  to  King  Albert 

quisite  modesty  of  his  heroic  nature ;  it  is  almost  as  if 
he  were  unaware  that  he  is  worthy  of  admiration.  In 
his  opinion  he  has  less  deserved  the  veneration  which 
France  has  devoted  to  him,  and  his  popularity  among 
us,  than  the  least  of  his  soldiers,  slain  for  our  common 
defence.  When  I  tell  him  that  I  have  seen  even  in  the 
depths  of  the  country,  in  peasants'  cottages,  the  portraits 
of  the  King  and  Queen  of  the  Belgians  in  the  place  of 
honour,  with  little  flags,  black,  yellow  and  red,  piously 
pinned  around  them,  he  appears  scarcely  to  believe  me; 
his  smile  and  his  silence  seem  to  answer : 

"Yet  all  that  I  did  was  so  natural.  Could  a  king 
worthy  of  the  name  have  acted  in  any  other  way?" 

Nov/  we  talk  about  the  Dardanelles,  where  in  this  hour 
serious  issues  hang  in  the  balance ;  he  is  pleased  to  ques- 
tion me  about  ambushes  in  those  parts,  which  I  fre- 
quented for  so  long  a  time,  and  which  have  not  ceased 
to  be  very  dear  to  me.  But  suddenly  a  colder  gust  blows 
in  through  the  window,  still  opening  on  to  the  forlorn 
little  garden.  With  what  kindly  thoughtfulness,  then,  he 
rises,  as  any  ordinary  officer  might  have  done,  and  him- 
self closes  the  window  near  which  I  am  seated. 

And  then  we  talk  of  war,  of  rifles,  of  artillery.  His 
Majesty  is  well  posted  in  everything,  like  a  general  al- 
ready broken  in  to  his  craft. 

IV— "A  GREAT  WARRIOR  IN  THE  MIDST  OF 
AN  ARMY  OF  HEROES'* 

Strange  destiny  for  a  prince,  who,  in  the  beginniiig, 
did  not  seem  designated  for  the  throne,  and  who,  per- 
haps, would  have  preferred  to  go  on  living  his  former 
somewhat  retired  life  by  the  side  of  his  beloved  princess. 
Then,  when  the  unlooked-for  crown  was  placed  upon 
his  youthful  brow,  he  might  well  have  believed  that  he 


My  Visit  to  King  Albert  15 

could  hope  for  an  era  of  profound  peace,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  peaceful  of  all  nations,  but,  contrary  to  every 
expectation,  he  has  known  the  most  appallingly  tragic 
reign  of  all.  Between  one  day  and  the  next,  without  a 
moment's  weakness,  without  even  a  moment's  hesitation, 
disdainful  of  compromises,  which  for  a  time,  at  least, 
though  to  the  detriment  of  the  civilisation  of  the  world, 
might  have  preserved  for  a  little  space  his  towns  and 
palaces,  he  stood  erect  in  the  way  of  the  Monster's 
onrush,  a  great  warrior  king  in  the  midst  of  an  army  of 
heroes. 

To-day  it  is  clear  that  he  has  no  longer  a  doubt  of 
victory,  and  his  own  loyalty  gives  him  complete  confi- 
dence in  the  loyalty  of  the  Allies,  who  truly  desire  to 
restore  life  to  his  country  of  Belgium;  nevertheless,  he 
insists  that  his  soldiers  shall  co-operate  with  all  their 
remaining  strength  in  the  work  of  deliverance,  and  that 
they  shall  remain  to  the  end  at  the  post  of  danger  and 
honour.  Let  us  salute  him  with  the  profoundest  rev- 
erence. 

Another  less  noble,  might  have  said  to  himself: 

"I  have  amply  paid  my  debt  to  the  common  cause;  it 
was  my  troops  who  built  the  first  rampart  against  bar- 
barism. My  country,  the  first  to  be  trampled  under  the 
feet  of  these  German  brutes,  is  no  more  than  a  heap  of 
ruins.    That  suffices." 

But  no,  he  will  have  the  name  of  Belgium  inscribed 
upon  a  yet  prouder  page,  by  the  side  of  Serbia,  in  the 
golden  book  of  history. 

And  that  is  the  reason  why  I  met  on  my  way  those 
inestimable  troops,  alert  and  fresh,  miraculously  revived, 
who  were  on  their  way  to  the  front  to  continue  the  holy 
struggle. 

Before  him  let  us  bow  down  to  the  very  ground. 

Night  is  falling  when  the  audience  comes  to  an  end 


1 6  My  Visit  to  King  Albert 

and  I  find  myself  again  on  the  footpath  that  leads  to  the 
abbey.  On  my  return  journey,  along  those  roads  broken 
up  by  rain  and  by  military  transport  wagons,  I  remain 
under  the  charm  of  his  welcome.  And  I  compare  these 
two  monarchs,  situated,  as  it  were,  at  opposite  poles  of 
humanity,  the  one  at  the  pole  of  light,  the  other  at  the 
pole  of  darkness ;  the  one  yonder,  swollen  with  hypocrisy 
and  arrogance,  a  monster  among  monsters,  his  hands 
full  of  blood,  his  nails  full  of  torn  flesh,  who  still  dares 
to  surround  himself  with  insolent  pomp ;  the  other  here, 
banished  without  a  murmur  to  a  little  house  in  a  village, 
standing  on  a  last  strip  of  his  martyred  kingdom,  but  in 
whose  honour  rises  from  the  whole  civilised  earth  a  con- 
cert of  sympathy,  enthusiasm,  magnificent  appreciation, 
and  for  whom  are  stored  up  crowns  of  most  pure  and 
immortal  glory. 


V— A  LITTLE  JOURNEY  TO  THE  BATTLE- 
GROUNDS OF  FRANCE 

(Another  Story  Told  by  Pierre  Loti) 

The  blood  of  the  masters  is  drenching  the  soil  of  France.  The 
great  academicians  are  willing  to  die  that  their  beloved  France 
may  live.  Here  we  stand  on  the  battleground  with  this  great 
French  novelist,  whose  impressions  are  told  in  Current  History. 

This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  found  myself  so  abso- 
lutely and  infinitely  alone,  in  the  midst  of  this  stage  set- 
ting of  immense  desolation,  which  to-day,  as  it  chances, 
is  sparkling  with  light,  and  is  only  the  more  mournful 
for  that.  Until  I  reach  the  little  wood  to  which  an  errand 
of  duty  calls  me  I  need  think  of  nothing;  I  need  not 
occupy  myself  with  anything ;  I  need  not  avoid  the  shells, 


Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France  17 

which  would  not  give  me  time  to  avoid  them,  nor  even 
choose  the  spot  to  set  my  foot  down,  since  it  sinks  in 
everywhere  equally.  And  so  it  comes  that  I  drift  back 
again  to  the  mood  of  former  days,  to  my  mood  of  mind 
before  the  war,  and  all  these  things  to  which  I  have 
grown  used  I  see  and  judge  as  though  they  were  new. 

Only  a  score  of  months  ago  who  would  have  imagined 
such  a  face  of  things?  Thus,  these  countless  excava- 
tions— white,  because  the  soil  of  this  region  is  white — 
excavations  that  stretch  on  all  sides  and  which  mark 
across  the  wilderness  multitudes  of  zebra-tracings — is  it 
possible  that  they  mark  out  the  only  paths  along  which 
our  soldiers  of  France  can  move  to-day  with  a  sort  of 
half  security?  .  .  .  Little  sunken  ways,  some  of  them 
full  of  curves,  some  of  them  straight,  which  have  been 
named  **guts,"  and  which  we  have  had  to  multiply,  to 
multiply  to  such  a  point  that  the  earth  is  furrowed  by 
them  to  infinity!  What  an  enormous  sum  of  toil  they 
represent,  these  mole  paths,  lying  in  a  network  over  hun- 
dreds of  leagues !  If  we  add  the  trenches,  the  shelter 
caves,  all  these  catacombs  that  plunge  down  into  the 
hearts  of  the  hills,  one's  mind  stops  dead  before  such  a 
total  of  excavation,  that  might  seem  the  work  of  cen- 
turies. 

And  these  things  that  look  like  fishing  nets  stretched 
on  all  sides.  If  one  were  not  informed  in  advance  and 
accustomed  to  them,  could  one  divine  what  they  can  pos- 
sibly be?  You  might  think  that  gigantic  spiders  had 
been  spinning  their  webs  among  these  myriads  of  posts, 
sometimes  planted  in  straight  lines,  sometimes  forming 
circles  or  half  moons,  tracing  across  the  wide  expanse 
designs  that  must  be  cabalistic  in  order  better  to  ensnare 
and  envelop  the  Barbarians.  And  besides  they  have  ter- 
ribly reinforced  them,  multiplying  them  twice,  nay,  ten 
times,  since  my  last  passage,  these  stake  nets,  and  our 


i8  Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France 

web-spinning  soldiers  have  had  to  make  among  them 
turnings  and  passages,  with  the  enormous  reels  of  barbed 
wire  which  they  carry  under  their  arms. 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  you  can  understand  at  the 
first  glance,  and  which  adds  to  the  grim  horror  of  the 
whole  scene,  and  that  is  the  inclosures  sprinkled  here 
and  there,  the  wooden  fences  that  shut  in  closely  packed 
groups  of  poor  little  burial  crosses,  made  of  two  pieces 
of  wood.  That  you  can  tell  at  once,  alas!  and  see 
exactly  what  it  is !  Here  they  lie,  therefore,  under  the 
thunder  of  the  big  guns,  as  though  the  battle  was  not  yet 
finished  for  them,  our  dear  departed  ones,  our  unknown, 
magnificent  heroes — whom  even  those  who  weep  for  them 
cannot  now  come  nigh,  because  death  is  passing  cease- 
lessly in  the  air  above  their  silent  little  gatherings. 

Ah !  To  complete  the  unreality  of  it  all,  here  comes 
a  black  bird  of  gigantic  wing-stretch,  a  monster  of  the 
apocalypse,  that  flits  past  noisily  high  above  me.  He 
flies  on  toward  France,  seeking  doubtless  the  more  shel- 
tered region  where  women  and  children  begin  to  be 
found,  with  the  hope  of  slaughtering  some  of  them. 

VI-""I  LOOK  DOWN  ON  THE  TERRIBLE 
LANDSCAPE" 

I  walk  on,  if  one  call  it  walking,  this  wearisome  and 
inexorable  process  of  plunging  through  the  mud.  And 
finally  I  arrive  at  the  little  grove  of  trees  where  we  are 
to  meet.  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  my  helmet  and  cloak  had 
become  a  heavy  burden  under  this  unexpectedly  burning 
sun.  It  happens  that  I  am  the  first  to  arrive ;  the  officer 
whom  I  have  summoned — to  discuss  new  defense  works, 
new  lines  of  stake  nets,  new  burrows — is  without  doubt 
that  blue  outline  making  its  way  hither,  but  he  is  still 
distant,  and  I  have  still  a  few  moments  to  continue  my 


Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France  19 

meditation  of  the  way  hither  before  it  is  time  to  become 
once  more  concentrated  and  exact.  It  is  clear  that  the 
place  is  not  left  entirely  alone,  for  these  poor,  half- 
stripped  branches  offer  no  more  resistance  than  mere 
sheets  of  paper  to  the  huge  humming  beetles  that  pass 
through  them  from  time  to  time ;  but  all  the  same  a  little 
wood  like  this  keeps  you  company,  shuts  you  in,  spreads 
something  of  illusion  about  you. 

I  am  on  a  bit  of  rising  ground,  from  which  I  look 
down  on  all  the  terrible  landscape,  the  succession  of 
monotonous  hillocks  zebra-streaked  by  whitish  "guts," 
and  the  few  trees  disheveled  by  shrapnel  bullets.  In  the 
further  distances  these  intertwined  wires,  stretched  in 
all  directions,  sparkle  in  the  sun,  somewhat  like  "the 
Virgin's  threads,"  which  spread  over  the  meadows  in 
Spring.  And  on  all  sides  the  detonations  of  artillery 
keep  up  their  accustomed  rumble,  which  goes  on  unceas- 
ingly here,  night  and  day,  like  the  roar  of  the  ocean 
against  the  cliffs. 

Ah !  the  huge  bird  has  found  some  one  to  speak  to  in 
the  air !  I  see  it  all  at  once  assailed  by  a  host  of  those 
little  tufts  of  white  cotton— bursting  shrapnel— which 
look  so  innocent,  but  which  are  so  perilous  for  birds  of 
its  breed.  It  turns  about  hastily ;  its  crimes  are  put  off 
for  another  time. 

From  behind  a  nearby  rising  ground  come  forth  a 
group  of  men  in  blue,  who  will  reach  me  before  the 
officer  who  is  coming  over  there.  It  is  the  chance  one, 
the  one  among  thousands  of  these  little  processions  which 
one  meets  incessantly,  alas !  along  the  battle  front,  and 
which  form,  so  to  speak,  part  of  the  stage  setting.  At 
its  head  four  soldiers  are  carrying  a  stretcher,  and  others 
are  following,  to  relieve  them.  Attracted  also  by  the 
illusory  protection  of  the  branches,  they  stop  instinctively 
at  the  entrance  of  the  little  wood  to  take  breath  and 


20 


Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France 


change  shoulders.  They  come  from  the  first-line 
trenches,  which  are  three  or  four  kilometers  away,  and 
are  carrying  a  "gravely  wounded"  man  to  an  under- 
ground hospital,  which  is  some  quarter  of  an  hour  away. 
They  also  had  not  foreseen  this  vicious  sun  that  scorches 
one's  head ;  they  are  wearing  their  helmets  and  cloaks, 
and  they  feel  the  weight  of  them  as  much  as  that  of  the 
precious  load  which  they  take  such  pains  to  carry  stead- 
ily ;  more,  they  drag  along,  on  each  foot,  a  thick  shell  of 
sticky  mud  which  gives  them  feet  like  elephants,  and  the 
sweat  runs  in  big  drops  over  their  fine,  tired  faces. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  wounded  man?"  I  ask 
in  a  low  voice. 

In  still  lower  voices  they  answer  me :  "He  is  ripped 
up  the  belly— oh !  the  trench  surgeon  told  us  that.  .  .  ." 
They  finish  the  sentence  only  with  a  shake  of  the  head, 
but  I  understand.  For  the  rest,  he  has  not  stirred.  His 
poor  hand  remains  pressed  to  his  brow  and  his  eyes, 
doubtless  to  protect  them  against  the  baking  sun,  and  I 
ask  :  "Why  did  you  not  cover  his  face  ?"  "We  did  put  a 
handkerchief  over  it,  Colonel,  but  he  took  it  away;  he 
said  he  would  rather  have  it  like  that,  so  that  he  can  still 
see  something  between  his  fingers." 

Vn—HOW  GLORIOUS  IS  THE  SPIRIT  OF 
FRANCE 

Ah !  but  the  two  last  men,  besides  sweat,  have  broad 
smears  of  blood  across  their  faces  and  running  down 
their  necks.  "Oh,  nothing  much  the  matter  with  us. 
Colonel !"  they  tell  me ;  "we  got  that  as  we  came  along! 
We  started  to  carry  him  along  the  'guts,'  but  it  shook 
him  too  much;  so  we  came  on  outside  in  the  open." 
Poor,  admirable  dreamer !  To  save  their  wounded  man 
from  jolting  they  have  risked  all  their  lives!  Two  or 
three  of  these  huge  death  beetles  which  ceaselessly  hum 


Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France  21 

past  have  smashed  themselves  near  them  against  the 
stones  and  have  sprinkled  them  with  their  fragments; 
the  Germans  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  shoot  at  a  single 
passerby  like  myself,  but  a  group,  and  especially  a  litter, 
is  irresistible  for  them.  Of  the  two  who  are  streaming 
with  blood,  one  is,  perhaps,  not  much  the  worse,  but  the 
other  has  an  ear  torn  off,  and  hanging  only  by  a  shred 
of  skin. 

"You  must  get  your  wound  dressed  by  the  surgeon 
immediately,  my  friend,"  I  say  to  him. 

"Yes,  Colonel,  we  are  on  our  way  there  to  the  hospital. 
It  suits  exactly." 

That  is  the  only  thing  that  has  occurred  to  him  to  say 
in  complaint:  "It  suits  exactly."  And  he  says  it  with 
such  a  fine,  quiet  smile,  while  thanking  me  for  taking  an 
interest  in  him. 

I  hesitate  to  go  closer  to  look  at  their  gravely  wounded 
man,  who  has  remained  without  stirring,  for  fear  I 
might  disturb  his  last  thoughts.  I  do  go  close  to  him, 
however,  very  gently,  because  they  are  going  to  carry 
him  away. 

Ah !  He  is  a  mere  lad !  A  village  boy  ;  one  can  guess 
that  at  once  by  his  bronzed  cheeks,  which  have  just  begun 
to  grow  pale.  The  sun,  as  he  wishes,  floods  his  hand- 
some 20-year-old  face,  which  is  at  the  same  time  vigor- 
ous and  candid,  and  his  hand  is  still  held  like  a  guard 
before  his  eyes,  which  are  set  and  seem  no  longer  to 
perceive  anything.  They  must  have  given  him  morphine 
to  keep  him  from  suffering  too  much.  Humble  child  of 
our  countryside,  brief  little  life,  what  is  he  dreaming  of, 
if  he  is  still  dreaming?  Perhaps  of  his  kerchiefed 
mamma,  who  wept  happy  tears  every  time  she  recognized 
his  childish  writing  on  an  envelope  from  the  front?  Or 
is  he  dreaming  of  the  farm  garden  that  held  his  earliest 
years  ? 


22  Journey  to  Battlegrounds  of  France 

I  see  on  his  breast  the  handkerchief  with  which  they 
tried  to  cover  his  face;  it  is  of  fine  Hnen,  embroidered 
with  a  Marquis's  coronet — the  coronet  of  one  of  his 
bearers.  He  had  wanted  "to  go  on  seeing  things,"  doubt- 
less in  his  terror  of  the  great  night.  But  even  this  sun, 
which  must  dazzle  him,  will  soon  cease  suddenly  to  be 
recognizable  for  him;  to  begin  with,  it  will  be  the  half- 
darkness  of  the  hospital,  and,  immediately  afterward, 
will  begin  for  him  the  long  inexorable  night,  in  which  no 
sun  will  ever  dawn  again. 


k 


TIVE  LA  FRANCE' —HOW  MEN  DIE 
FOR  THEIR  COUNTRY 

Last  Messages  of  French  Soldiers 

Told  hy  Rene  Bazin,  Member  of  the  French  Academy 


Behind  the  dry  official  reports  of  military  events  is  a  vast  fund 
of  emotional  human  stories.  Glimpses  of  this  side  of  the 
Great  War  are  found  in  private  letters,  personal  experiences, 
and  thrilling  episodes  of  courage,  humor,  or  pathos  which  are 
being  preserved  in  the  New  York  Times  Current  History. 

I  HAVE  heard  magnificent  sayings  of  our  soldiers; 
others  have  been  written  to  me  by  those  who  heard  them. 
I  would  not  have  them  perish.  It  seems  to  me  that  they 
naturally  form  a  part  of  the  epoch  we  are  living  through ; 
that  they  are  good  to  read  and  meditate  on,  unconscious 
testimonies  of  that  which  historians  will  call  the  new  life 
of  France,  of  that  which  has  ever  been  her  deeper  life, 
widened  and  developed  in  this  hour  of  trial. 

Therefore  I  shall  record  here  not  all  these  sayings  and 
traits,  but  some  of  them. 

At  B.,  in  the  hospital  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  a  wounded 
soldier  was  to  have  a  limb  amputated.  But  he  was  so 
weak  that  the  surgeon  hesitated. 

"If  we  could  only  give  him  some  blood !" 

"If  that  is  all  that  is  needed  I  am  ready  to  give  it!" 
answers  another  wounded  soldier,  a  Breton. 

The  transfusion  is  made.  The  staff  of  the  hospital, 
touched  by  the  devotion  of  this  wounded  soldier,  who 
was  known  to  be  very  poor,  made  a  little  collection  here 
and    there,    very    quietly,    and    gathered    five    hundred 

23 


24  ''Vive  La  France'' 

francs,  which  they  took  great  satisfaction  in  offering  to 
him.  One  day  one  of  them  came  close  to  his  bed,  spoke 
of  the  service  he  had  rendered,  thanked  him  and  offered 
him  the  money.     Mark  his  answer: 

"Oh,  no !  I  give  my  blood  ;  I  do  not  sell  it !" 
A  very  young  soldier  from  the  North,  with  a  beard- 
less and  rather  childish  face,  is  stretched  at  the  back  of  a 
trench,  dying  from  a  terrible  shell  wound  in  the  stomach. 
In  spite  of  the  frightful  wound  he  does  not  complain, 
he  does  not  repine,  and  in  his  wide,  upward-gazing  eyes 
one  could  just  perceive  the  expression  of  sadness  which 
he  often  had.  For  since  mobilizing  he  had  received  no 
news  from  his  home  in  the  occupied  territory.  His  com- 
rades are  doing  what  they  can  for  him,  offering  him 
water  to  drink,  unbuttoning  his  tunic,  trying  to  stanch 
the  blood.  Opening  his  eyes,  which  he  had  kept  for  a 
long  moment  closed,  and  no  longer  with  an  expression 
of  suffering,  he  said  to  one  of  his  comrades,  a  big,  hairy 
fellow  who  was  bending  over  him : 

"Friend,  you  must  not  tell  mother  what  a  frightful 
wound  I  had!  A  bullet  is  better  than  what  I  have!" 
Then  he  distributed  a  few  little  things  he  had  in  his 
pocket — his  knife,  his  purse,  a  corkscrew,  a  tinder-box — 
a  last  testament  soon  ended.  Finally,  with  difficulty,  he 
opened  his  notebook  and,  setting  himself  to  write,  though 
he  could  no  longer  see  very  clearly,  he  traced  a  few 
lines.  When  he  had  finished  his  soul  departed. 
Three  minutes  later,  as  the  word  of  his  end  spread  along 
the  trench,  at  this  time  not  under  heavy  bombardment 
by  the  enemy,  a  Captain  arrived,  smeared  with  mud  up 
to  the  shoulders.  He  saw  the  soldier.  "Oh,  poor  boy ! 
One  of  my  bravest !"  Respectfully  he  took  the  notebook,' 
which  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  opened  it  and  read: 
"Au  revoir,  father;  au  revoir,  mother;  au  revoir,  little 
sisters ;  I  am  dying  for  my  country.    Vive  la  France !" 


"Vive  La  France"  25 

Sergeant  Raissac  of  Beziers  was  mortally  wounded  in 
an  assault  on  a  German  trench.  When  they  lifted  his 
body  his  hand  still  held  a  photograph  representing  his 
mother,  his  sisters  and  himself,  and  on  the  back  of  the 
picture  he  had  managed  to  write,  with  his  last  effort, 
"Adieu !  No  tears,  but  a  Christian  acceptance.  I  am  at 
peace  with  God." 

Yesterday,  during  his  two  days*  leave,  I  met  the  son 
of  a  poor  countrywoman,  a  workman  whom  I  have  loved 
for  a  long  time.  When  I  took  leave  of  him,  saying, 
"Good  luck  to  you.  Marcel!"  he  looked  up  with  unre- 
proaching  eyes  and  answered  me :  "On  the  one  side,  and 
on  the  other,  I  fear  nothmg!"  And  this  meant:  "Life? 
Death  ?    What  does  it  matter  ?    I  am  ready !" 

What  does  all  this  signify?  It  is  the  poetry  of  chivalry 
that  continues ;  it  is  the  unfinished  Crusade ;  it  is  God 
making  Himself  manifest  through  purified  France. 

Those  who  seek  the  sublime  will  find  nothing  grander. 

II— THE  YOUNG  HEROES  OF  FRANCE 

Told  hy  Maurice  Barres,  m  memory  of  Max  Bar  thou, 
who  volunteered  at  eighteen 

I  BELIEVE  that  young  heroes  abound  at  this  moment 
when  every  family  is  cruelly  involved  in  the  war.  The 
son  dreams  of  helping  his  father,  his  elder  brothers,  of 
joining  them,  of  avenging  them.  Are  his  city  and  his 
home  invaded?  With  his  whole  heart  he  tries  and  ex- 
amines himself  as  to  what  his  duty  and  his  honour  de- 
mand. I  remember  how  the  minds  of  my  companions, 
some  10  years  old,  and  our  slightly  older  brothers  were 
fired  in  1870.  .  .  . 

Do  you  wish  me  to  bring  you  my  contribution  to  the 
monument  of  our  young  patriots  ? 


26  "Vive  La  France" 

First,  a  little  story.  On  Nov.  24,  1914,  on  a  cold  day, 
about  3  in  the  afternoon,  the  Prussians,  whom  they  call 
"Boches,"  are  once  again  trying  to  cross  the  frontier,  to 
enter  France.  It  is  very  cold,  there  is  a  high  wind,  and 
snow  covers  the  ground.  Who  tells  the  story  ?  A  work- 
man at  the  front,  who,  from  the  neighbourhood  of  Pont- 
a-Mousson,  writes  to  his  two  little  children  at  his  home 
at  Neuillez  sur  Marne.  They  gave  me  his  letter.  I 
should  spoil  it  if  I  retouched  it.  I  transcribe  it  just  as 
it  is: 

"My  dear  little  Marcella,  this  story,  which  happened  to 
some  French  soldiers,  you  are  to  tell  to  your  little  Charlie 
and  your  companions,  and  you  are  to  show  them  how 
two  little  children  saved  the  lives  of  twenty-eight  papas. 

"In  a  lonely  farmhouse  a  detachment  of  reservists, 
composed  of  thirty  men,  are  resting  from  the  labours  of 
the  night  in  an  underground  cellar,  waiting  for  the  next 
night  to  begin  their  work  again  and  accomplish  their 
mission. 

In  a  room  about  them,  two  children,  Liza  and  John, 
are  sitting  beside  their  mamma  near  the  fire.  All  three 
talk  the  old  country  dialect.  All  at  once  the  mother  rises, 
runs  to  the  door  and  sees  some  horsemen  coming  from  a 
distance. 

"  'My  children,'  she  says,  pressing  them  to  her  heart, 
*I  think  the  Prussians  are  coming.  They  will  see  that  we 
have  lodged  and  fed  French  soldiers,  and  they  will  surely 
want  to  make  us  tell  where  they  are.  They  will  take 
them  and  shoot  them.' 

"  *We  must  say  they  have  gone  away  there,  just  in 
the  opposite  direction !'  said  little  John. 

"  *Oh,  no !'  said  their  mamma ;  'if  we  deceive  them 
with  a  lie  they  will  come  back  and  take  vengeance.  Lis- 
ten rather!  I  shall  speak  to  the  Prussians  only  in  dia- 
lect, and  they  won't  understand  a  word.     Do  you  also 


"Vive  La  France''  27 

do  as  I  do,  and,  to  everything  they  say,  answer  always 
in  the  same  phrase,  in  dialect.' 

"The  clatter  of  hoofs  was  heard,  and  the  rattle  of 
weapons. 

"  'Courage,  my  children  !*  said  their  mamma.  The 
door  opens.  The  Boches  enter.  They  ask  questions,  but 
the  mother's  answers  are  unintelligible  to  them. 

"  'Look  at  these  two  children !  They  must  learn 
French  at  school,'  said  the  officer,  who  spoke  a  little 
French. 

"One  of  the  Germans  seized  little  Lisa,  while  another 
caught  little  John. 

"'Where  is  your  father?'  he  asked  in  a  harsh  voice. 
'Where  are  the  French  that  passed  here?' 

"Lisa  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  this  foreign  soldier  and, 
all  trembling,  replied  in  dialect.  John  did  the  same.  The 
soldiers,  irritated,  suspecting  a  trick,  searched  the  house, 
but  did  not  find  the  trap-door  which  had  been  previously 
covered  with  dirty  straw.  They  threatened  to  cut  the 
children's  throats.  They  told  them  they  would  kill  their 
mother,  too,  if  they  did  not  answer.  The  poor  children 
began  to  cry,  but,  faithful  to  their  mother's  directions, 
they  repeated,  through  their  tears,  the  same  phrase. 

"The  French  soldiers  who  were  in  the  cellar  and  who 
heard  everything  through  a  ventilator  felt  their  blood 
boil,  and,  but  for  their  officer,  would  have  come  forth  to 
protect  the  poor  children,  and,  without  doubt,  would  have 
been  killed,  for  they  were  outnumbered. 

"The  Prussians  did  not  think  that  such  young  chil- 
dren, threatened  with  death,  would  be  capable  of  such 
heroic  discretion ;  they  ended  by  believing  that  they  could 
not  make  themselves  understood  and  rode  away. 

"And  that  is  how  two  little  children,  Lisa,  aged  8,  and 
John,  aged  10,  by  their  obedience  to  their  mother  and  by 
courage  kept  thirty  men  from  being  killed,  twenty-eight 


28  ''Vive  La  France" 

wives  still  have  their  husbands,  and  forty-seven  little 
children  have  their  papas.  Among  these  forty-seven  little 
children  my  little  Marcella  and  my  little  Charlie  will 
perhaps  see  their  papa  again.'* 

I  leave  this  story  in  its  fine  simplicity.  A  workman 
who  had  become  a  soldier  chats  with  his  children  far 
away.  But  the  chief  attraction  in  it  for  me  is  that  the 
fact  reported  is  quite  authentic.  I  know  the  farm  in  the 
district  of  Meurthe  et  Moselle,  and  later  on  I  shall  tell 
its  name,  as  well  as  those  of  the  farmer's  wife  and  the 
two  children,  who  have  received  a  well-earned  reward. 


FOR  GOD  AND  ITALY— BREATHING 
DEATH  WITH  THE  ITALIANS 

''Where  Minutes  Are  Eternal" 

Told  by  Gabriele  D*Annunzio,  Italy^s  Most  Famous 
Living  Poet  and  a  Lieutenant  in  the  Italian  Navy 

The  great  D'Annunzio,  like  most  of  the  famous  poets,  painters, 
and  composers  of  Europe,  is  offering  his  life  to  his  country. 
He  is  a  Lieutenant  in  the  Italian  Navy  Occasionally  some 
word  is  heard  from  him  in  which  we  see  war  through  the  eyes 
of  the  poet.  He  sent  this  graphic  description  of  his  experiences 
as  a  mine-layer  to  the  London  Telegraph  of  December  29,  1915. 

I— A  POET  AT  SEA  WITH  THE  ITALIAN  NAVY 

It  can  be  said  of  the  Italian  war  what  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley  said  of  the  Medusa's  head  which  he  saw  in  Flor- 
ence, and  which  he  attributed  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci :  "Its 
beauty  and  its  horror  are  divine." 

This  night  of  danger  and  death  is  one  of  the  sweetest 
that  ever  spread  its  blue  veil  over  the  face  of  the  heav- 
ens. The  sea  darkens,  and  in  its  innumerable  pulsations 
the  nocturnal  phosphoresence  is  already  discernible. 
Here  and  there  the  rippled  surface  of  the  sea  glitters  with 
an  internal  light  as  a  quivering  eyelid,  disclosing  myste- 
rious glances.  The  new  moon  is  like  a  burning  handful 
of  sulphur.  Ever  and  anon  the  black  cloud  of  smoke 
rising  from  the  funnels  hides  it  or  appears  to  drag  it  in 
its  spirals  like  a  moving  flame. 

Life  is  not  an  abstraction  of  aspects  and  events,  but 
a  sort  of  diffused  sensuousness,  a  knowledge  offered  to 
all  the  senses,  a  substance  good  to  touch,  smell,  taste, 
feel.     In  fact,  I  feel  all  the  things  near  to  my  senses, 

29 


30  For  God  and  Italy 

like  the  fisherman  walking  barefooted  on  the  beach  cov- 
ered with  the  incoming  tide,  and  who  now  and  then  bends 
to  identify  and  pick  up  what  moves  under  the  soles  of 
his  feet.  The  aspects  of  this  maritime  city  are  like  my 
passions  and  like  the  monuments  of  Nineveh  and  Knos- 
sus,  places  of  my  ardor  and  creations  of  my  fancy,  real 
and  unreal,  products  of  my  desire  and  products  of  time. 
This  city  is  one  of  those  tumultuous  harmonies  whence 
often  the  most  beautiful  elements  of  my  art  are  born. 
Nothing  escapes  the  eyes  Nature  gave  me,  and  everything 
is  food  for  my  soul.  Such  a  craving  for  life  is  not  unlike 
the  desire  to  die  in  order  to  achieve  immortality. 

In  fact,  tonight  death  is  present  like  life,  beautiful  as 
life,  intoxicating,  full  of  promises,  transfiguring.  I  stand 
on  my  feet,  wearing  shoes  that  can  easily  be  unlaced, 
on  the  deck  of  a  small  ironclad  on  which  there  is  only 
space  enough  for  the  weapons  and  the  crew.  Steam  is 
up.  The  black  smoke  of  the  three  funnels  rises  toward 
the  new  moon,  shining  yellow  in  the  cloud,  burning  like 
a  handful  of  sulphur.  The  sailors  have  already  donned 
life-saving  belts  and  inflated  the  collars  which  must  sup- 
port the  head  in  the  agony  of  drowning.  I  hear  the 
voice  of  the  second  officer  giving  the  order  to  place  in 
the  only  two  boats  the  biscuits  and  the  canned  meat. 

A  young  officer,  muscular,  but  agile  as  a  leopard,  who 
has  Boldness'  very  eyes,  and  has  to  his  credit  already  an 
admirable  manoeuvre  in  conducting  the  destroyer  from 
the  arsenal  to  the  anchorage,  pays  for  the  champagne. 
We  drink  a  cup  sitting  around  the  table  on  which  the 
navigation  chart  is  spread,  while  the  commander  of  the 
flotilla  dictates,  standing,  to  the  typist  the  order  of  the 
nocturnal  operation,  which  is  to  be  issued  to  the  com- 
manders of  the  other  ships.  A  suppressed  joy  shines  in 
the  eyes  of  all.  The  operation  is  fraught  with  danger, 
is  most  difficult,  and  the  cup  we  drink  may  be  our  last. 


For  God  end  Italy  31 

An  ensign,  who  is  little  more  than  a  boy,  and  a  Sicilian, 
who  resembles  an  adolescent  Arabian  brought  up  in  the 
court  of  Frederick  of  Serbia,  rubs  in  his  hands  a  per- 
fumed leaf,  one  of  those  leaves  which  are  grown  in  a 
terra  cotta  vase  on  the  parapets  of  the  windows  looking 
into  the  silent  lanes  of  the  city.  The  perfume  is  so 
strong  that  every  one  of  us  smells  it  with  quivering  nos- 
trils. That  single  leaf  on  that  terrible  warship,  where 
everything  is  iron  and  fire,  that  leaf  of  love,  seems  to  us 
infinitely  precious,  and  reminds  us  of  the  gardens  of 
Giudecca  and  Fondamenta  Nuove  left  behind 

The  commander  continues  to  dictate  the  order  of  the 
operation  with  his  soft  Tuscan  accent,  with  some  same 
telling  words  that  Ramondo  d'Amoretto  ManeUi  used  in 
the  epistle  he  sent  to  Leonard  Strozzi  when  the  Genoese 
were  vanquished  by  the  navy  of  the  Venetians  and  Flo- 
rentines. 

II— "WE  ARE  GOING  TO  PLANT  MINES  ON  A 
HOSTILE  COAST" 

Ours  is  a  marvelous  exploit.  We  are  going  to  plant 
mines  near  the  enemy's  coast,  only  a  bare  kilometer  from 
its  formidable  batteries.  The  ensign  fastens  the  black 
collar  around  his  neck,  and  will  presently  inflate  it  with 
his  breath. 

We  are  ready.  We  sail.  The  firmament  over  our 
heads  is  covered  with  smoke  and  sparks  Along  the  gun- 
wale, on  each  side  of  the  ship,  the  enormous  mines  in 
their  iron  cages  rest  on  the  supports  projecting  over  the 
water.  The  long  torpedoes  are  ready  for  the  attack,  pro- 
tected by  their  iron  tubes,  with  their  bronze  heads  charged 
with  trytol,  beasts  in  ambuscade.  The  sailors,  their  heads 
covered,  are  grouped  around  the  guns,  whose  breeches 
are  open.  All  the  available  space  is  strewn  with  wea- 
pons and  contrivances,  and  full  of  alert  men.    In  order 


3^  For  God  and  Italy 

to  go  from  stern  to  prow  it  is  necessary  to  crouch,  bend, 
pass  under  a  greasy  torpedo,  leap  over  outstretched  sail- 
ors, strike  the  leg  against  the  fastening  of  a  torpedo, 
squeeze  against  a  hot  funnel,  entangle  one's  self  in  a  rope, 
receive  squarely  in  the  face  a  dash  of  foam  while  grasp- 
ing the  railing. 

I  ascend  the  bridge.  We  are  already  clear  of  the  an- 
chorage. It  is  dark.  The  moon  is  dipping  in  the  sea. 
In  an  hour  it  will  have  disappeared.  The  ship  quivers 
at  the  vibration  of  the  machinery.  The  funnels  still  emit 
too  much  smoke  and  too  many  sparks.  On  board  all  the 
lights  are  out,  even  the  cigarettes.  Darkness  enshrouds 
alike  both  prow  and  stern.  The  last  order  megaphoned 
resounds  in  an  azure  dotted  with  sparks  and  stars— which 
are  only  inentinguishable  sparks.  A  light  mist  rises  from 
the  water.  The  wake  foams,  and  the  sea  ahead  parts  in 
two  broad  furrows  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  giving 
forth,  now  and  then,  strange  reflections. 

Following  in  our  wake  the  second  destroyer  looms  up 
darkly,  and  after  her  all  the  others  in  line.  When  the 
route  is  changed  to  reconnoitre  the  coast,  from  the  great 
central  wake  many  oblique  ones  part,  designing  an  im- 
mense silver  rake. 

The  commander  is  against  the  railing,  leaning  out  to- 
ward darkness,  with  his  whole  soul  in  his  scrutinizing 
eyes.  Now  and  then  he  turns  his  ruddy  face  and  trans- 
mits an  order  with  exact  and  sharp  words.  The  helms- 
man at  the  wheel  never  once  removes  his  eyes  from  the 
compass,  lighted  by  a  small  lamp  in  a  screened  niche. 
Clearly  he  is  a  man  of  the  purest  Tyrrenean  race,  a  true 
comrade  of  Ulysses,  with  a  face  which  seems  to  have 
been  modeled  by  the  trade  wind.  Near  by  is  the  signal 
box.  -Half  Speed,"  "Full  Speed,"  "Slow,"  "Stop." 
Through  the  speaking  tube  the  orders  are  transmitted  to 
the  engme  room.    "Four— Three—Zero." 


For  God  and  Italy  33 

We  are  making  twenty-three  knots  an  hour.  The  foam 
of  the  great  wake  gUtters  under  the  stern  lights.  "A 
little  to  the  right." 

The  navigating  officer  is  bending  over  the  chart,  held 
down  by  lead  weights  covered  with  cloth,  measuring,  fig- 
uring with  the  compass  and  the  square,  under  the  blue 
light  of  a  shaded  lamp.  A  great  shooting  star  crosses 
the  August  sky,  disappearing  toward  the  Cappella. 

Ill— A  DRAMATIC  MOMENT  IN  THE  NIGHT 

Impatience  gnaws  my  heart.  I  strain  my  sight  to  dis- 
cern in  the  darkness  the  signal  which  has  been  prear- 
ranged. Nothing  is  to  be  seen  yet.  I  descend  from  the 
ladder  and  move  toward  the  stern,  skirting  the  row  of 
torpedoes,  leaping  over  the  outstretched  sailors.  From 
the  stern  the  dark  silhouettes  of  the  other  destroyers  in 
line  are  visible.  All  of  a  sudden  the  signal  is  flashed  in 
the  direction  of  the  prow.  We  are  nearing  the  spot  of 
our  operation.     Every  will  is  strained. 

"One— Two— Zero." 

The  speed  is  reduced  to  six  knots.  The  funnels  still 
emit  too  much  smoke  and  too  many  sparks.  The  com- 
mander is  furious.  Orders  are  megaphoned  and  every 
word  seems  to  crowd  the  adventurous  air  with  danger. 
The  manoeuvre  is  executed  with  sort  of  rhythmic  pre- 
cision. Maintaining  their  distance,  and  one  by  one,  every 
ship  files  to  the  starboard  of  us,  standing  black  over  the 
foaming  wake,  lighted  every  now  and  then  by  a  strange 
phosphorescence. 

*'On  reaching  the  eastern  route  for  the  planting  of  the 
mines,  extinguish  the  stern  lights,"  cries  the  megaphone. 
Under  the  playing  searchlights  the  enemy's  coast  is  clearly 
visible.  We  are  in  low  water,  and  the  speed  is  further 
diminished. 


34  For  God  and  Italy 

"One — Zero — Zero." 

We  almost  touch  bottom,  and  proceed  by  feeling  our 
course  ahead.  We  also  take  soundings  continuously  to 
avoid  running  aground.  The  ships  seem  to  pant  and  puff 
grievedly,  as  great  mammals  in  danger  of  running  ashore. 

''Reverse  engines.     Full  speed  1" 

One  of  the  ships  feels  she  cannot  manoeuvre  any 
longer,  having  actually  struck  bottom,  and  endeavors  to 
free  herself.  She  lies  ahead  of  us,  and  within  speaking 
distance.  We  see  the  water  glitter  under  the  blue  light 
of  her  stern  lanterns.  It  seems  to  us  now  that  every  other 
ship  is  in  danger.  The  sky  is  veiled.  Long  Medusan 
tresses  of  clouds  drag  the  constellation  as  the  net  drags 
silvery  fishes.     The  engines  throb  painfully. 

The  commander  is  there,  all  soul,  defying  the  darkness 
with  his  eyes.  What  if  at  that  moment  the  enemy  should 
sight  us? 

"The  Invitfo  leads." 

His  clear  orders  through  a  series  oT  manoeuvres  draw 
away  the  flotilla  from  the  shallow  waters  and  on  to  the 
safe  course.  Beyond,  on  the  shore,  the  enemy's  search- 
lights are  seen  crossing  each  other  like  white  blades.  Un- 
der the  light  the  shore  seems  so  near  as  to  give  one  the 
illusion  of  being  about  to  drop  anchor.  We  are  all  tensely 
waiting.  In  a  few  seconds  we  shall  be  in  the  prearranged 
spot.  Minutes  seem  hours.  The  rubber  stoppers  have 
been  removed  from  the  tubes.  The  mines  are  ready,  on 
their  supports,  to  be  lowered  into  the  sea.  The  sailors 
await  the  order  standing. 

IV— "WE  BREATHE  DANGER  AND  DEATH" 

The  minutes  are  eternal.  We  may  be  detected  every 
second.  The  shore  is  only  a  mile  from  us.  The  fun- 
nels are  our  despair.    They  still  emit  too  much  smoke  and 


For  God  and  Italy  35 

sparks.     At  last  a  warning  is  heard   from  the  bridge. 

"Ready." 

The  Lieutenant  looks  at  his  watch,  lighting  the  dial 
with  the  lamp  hidden  in  his  hand.  The  enormous  mines, 
whose  heads  are  charged  with  destruction,  are  there 
silent,  like  gigantic,  gray,  petrified  sea  Medusas,  fixed  on 
their  support,  whose  double  tooth  projects  over  the 
waters. 

"Ready  !     Let  go  !" 

The  first  mine  rolls  over  with  the  sound  of  a  shatter- 
ing barrel,  falls  in  the  foaming  sea,  disappears. 

"Ready  !     Let  go !" 

Eighteen  seconds  elapse.  The  second  falls,  followed 
by  the  third,  fourth,  and  all  the  others,  on  every  ship 
which  maintains  a  diagonal  course  nearing  the  coast.  In 
three  minutes  the  operation  is  over ;  the  mines  are  planted 
in  the  exact  spot.  The  teeth  of  the  crew  gleam  in  a  wild 
smile.  Each  sailor  sees  in  his  heart  the  enemy's  battle- 
ships rent  and  sinking. 

"Four — Three — Three — Zero." 

We  assume  our  position  at  the  head  of  the  line,  re- 
turning on  our  course  with  the  initial  speed.  The  ships 
seem  now  to  me  to  be  quivering  with  warlike  joy.  In 
the  distance  over  the  mainland  the  white  beams  of  the 
searchlights  still  cross  each  other.  Ever  and  anon  a  rocket 
explodes.  Our  wake  now  is  so  beautiful  as  to  resemble 
a  whirling  milky  way.  A  sailor  mounts  the  bridge  and 
gives  us  a  cup  of  steaming  cofifee,  whose  aroma  titillates 
our  nostrils  and  our  heart.    We  light  our  cigarette. 

But  here  is  a  Marconigram. 

"Look  out,  two  submarines  are  lying  in  wait  for  you 
on  the  safe  route." 

And  in  the  first  quiver  of  dawn,  with  expanded  lungs, 
we  again  breathe  danger  and  death. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  RUSSIANS  IN 
FIGHT  FOR  LIBERTY 

"The  Deserted  Battlefields  I  Have  Seen" 

Told  hy  Count  Ilya  Tolstoy^  Son  of  the  late  Count 
Leo  Tolstoy^  Famous  Russian  Novelist 

Count  Tolstoy  has  been  serving  with  the  Red  Cross  branch  of 
the  Russian  Army.  During  these  tragic  experiences,  he  kept 
a  war  diary  on  the  battlefields.  This  is  the  first  English  trans- 
lation of  excerpts  from  this  diary,  translated  from  the  Russian 
by  Miss  I.  Rojanskq  for  Current  History — Copyright  1916  by 
Otis  F.  Wood. 

I__-I  CAN  SEE  THE  SCENE  UNFOLDING 
BEFORE  MY  EYES" 

The  war  relics  of  devastated  structures  leave  a  sad  and 
painful  impression.  Of  the  many  deserted  battlefields 
which  I  have  seen  during  the  two  years  past,  the  nameless 
little  graves  faintly  marked  with  little  wooden  crosses,  of 
the  deserted  trenches,  nothing  gave  me  so  much  food  for 
deep  and  sad  reflection  as  the  bare  and  lonely  chimneys 
projecting  from  amid  piles  of  rubbish,  melancholy  black- 
ened pots,  the  scattered  remnants  of  domesticity;  a 
smashed  pail,  a  broken  wheel,  a  binding  of  a  torn  book, 
the  splinters  of  what  was  once  a  crib. 

To  think  that  hereabout  dwelt  a  family ;  that  they  were 
contented  and  possibly  happy  !  Those  walls,  stripped  and 
crumbled,  what  have  they  not  seen ! 

It  always  seems  to  me  that  an  event  having  occurred 
at  a  given  place,  the  memory  of  the  occurrence  attaches 
permanently  to  it.    Whenever  I  happened  to  find  myself 

36 


The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty      37 

in  a  locality  in  which  some  memorable  events  had  taken 
place  I  could  not  think  of  those  events  without  at  the 
same  time  visualizing  the  surroundings  amid  which  they 
occurred;  and  the  more  recent  the  occurrence,  the  more 
vividly  I  can  see  the  scene  unfolding  itself  before  my 
eyes. 

The  vast  number  of  such  impressions  which  the  present 
war  has  produced  make  a  film,  vivid  and  endless. 

II— *1  REMEMBER  ...  A  HORRIBLE  TALE" 

I  remember  one  such  pile  of  ruins,  which  I  saw  not  far 
from  the  road  leading  to  Jaroslav.  This  ruin  remained 
permanently  fixed  in  my  memory  by  reason  of  a  horrible 
tale  connected  with  it. 

Some  time  ago  there  lived  on  a  farm  a  well-to-do  Gali- 
cian  gardener.  When  the  war  broke  out  he  was  drafted 
into  the  army.  He  went  forth,  leaving  behind  him  a  wife 
and  three  small  children.  Shortly  following  his  depar- 
ture, troops  commenced  appearing  in  the  immediate 
neisfhborhood.  At  first  came  small  detachments,  but  these 
were  quickly  followed  by  more  formidable  bodies.  In 
a  short  time  lines  of  uenches  were  dug  on  both  sides 
of  the  farm  and  real  warfare  began. 

The  firing  v/as  continuous.  The  family  sought  safety 
in  the  corners  of  their  hut.  They  hid  in  the  cellar  under 
the  heaps  of  beets  and  potatoes,  but  the  children  soon 
became  accustomed  to  the  hissing  of  bullets  and  lost  all 
fear  of  them. 

The  wounded  soldiers,  for  the  most  part  Austrians, 
began  crawling  toward  the  farm.  There  they  bound  up 
their  wounds.  The  children  looked  on  and  sometimes 
gave  aid,  holding  with  their  tiny  fingers  the  blood-soaked 
cotton,  or  winding  long  and  transparent  bandages  around 
the  wounded  limbs.     They  became  accustomed  to  pain 


38     The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty 

and  to  the  groans  of  the  dying,  and  in  their  naive  and 
simple  way  rendered  all  the  help  of  which  they  were 
capable. 

At  night,  when  darkness  fell  and  when  firing  from 
both  sides  would  cease,  the  Austrian  relief  workers  would 
come,  place  the  wounded  on  long  and  unsteady  stretchers, 
and  carry  them  to  the  rear.  On  one  occasion  the  wounded 
sent  the  eldest  girl  to  the  pond  to  fetch  some  water.  She 
stayed  away  for  a  long,  long  time.  Later  she  was  found 
lying  on  the  grass  with  a  bullet  in  her  slender  little  shoul- 
der.   The  pails  lay  near  her  empty. 

During  the  night  she,  too,  was  placed  on  a  stretcher  and 
was  carried  away.  With  her  went  the  mother  and  the 
rest  of  the  children.  From  that  night  on  the  farm  re- 
mained forsaken. 

The  wounded,  however,  continued  crawling  to  the  hut, 
their  numbers  increasing  from  day  to  day.  At  times  the 
litter  bearers  could  not  manage  to  look  into  the  farm, 
and  the  wounded  lay  for  days  at  a  stretch  without  aid. 

Ill— "THERE  WAS  NO  ONE  TO  BURY  THE 
BODIES" 

At  the  end  of  October  a  serious  cholera  epidemic  broke 
out  among  the  Austrian  troops.  From  that  time  on  there 
appeared  among  those  creeping  toward  the  lonely  farm 
large  numbers  of  emaciated  and  pale-blue  forms — shadows 
of  men.  On  reaching  the  farm  they  fell  on  to  the  straw, 
coiled  and  groaned  in  agony,  and  for  the  most  part  re- 
mained lying  there,  silenced  by  everlasting  sleep. 

There  was  no  one  to  bury  the  bodies,  and  they  grad- 
ually began  decomposing.  On  top  of  those  bodies  fell 
more  and  more.  It  became  impossible  to  live  amid  these 
hellish  surroundings,  and  if  by  chance  some  unfortunate 
wounded  happened  to  come  along  most  of  them  would 
leave  the  little  hut  and  limp  ahead,  preferring  to  dare  the 


The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty     39 

firing  line  rather  than  be  stifled  in  this  horrible  atmosphere 
of  death  and  stench. 

The  engagements,  having  lasted  several  vveeks,  became 
more  and  more  stubborn.  The  trenches  crept  nearer  and 
nearer,  until  they  resembled  two  live,  gigantic  horns  about 
10  embrace  each  other.  Presently  one  of  the  Austrian 
trenches  came  so  near  the  farm  that  the  house  became 
an  obstacle  to  firing,  and  an  order  was  issued  to  apply 
the  torch  to  the  incumbrance. 

It  was  a  dangerous  task ;  all  knew  through  experience 
that  the  Russians  keep  a  sharp  lookout  on  all  that  tran- 
spires in  the  enemy  line  and  do  not  allow  to  pass  with 
im.punity  the  most  insignificant  move  on  the  part  of  the 
enemy.  At  night  the  men,  while  smoking,  would  lie  low 
at  the  very  base  of  the  trench,  as  the  mere  striking  of  a 
match  sufficed  to  draw  fire  from  the  opposite  lines. 

As  a  result  of  some  faint  noise  or  a  slight  movement, 
vigorous  firing  would  not  infrequently  burst  out  all  along 
the  line,  and  instead  of  getting  the  much-needed  rest,  the 
soldiers  would  pass  nights  on  their  feet  and  remain 
fatigued  from  sleeplessness  and  nervous  exertion. 

A  young  Second  Lieutenant,  recently  promoted,  and 
clean-shaven,  volunteered  to  apply  the  torch.  Though  an 
ambitious  man,  he  was  at  the  same  time  limited  and  cow- 
ardly. He  always  tried  to  conceal  his  cowardice  under  a 
ma^k  of  arrogancsi,  pushing  his  way  forward  whenever 
there  was  an  opportunity  to  get  into  the  spotlight  and 
have  his  name  mentioned.  To  brace  himself,  the  officer 
emptied  a  large  glass  of  spirits,  and,  taking  along  one  of 
the  men,  left  a  cozy,  sheltered  trench  and  began  feeling 
his  way  across  the  fields. 

IV— THE  TORCH  AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH 

The  night  was  dark  as  a  grave,  and  over  the  lowland 


40     The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty 

of  the  garden  hung  a  thick,  milky  fog.  The  feet  sank 
deep  into  the  sticky,  soaking  mud.  The  Lieutenant's  as- 
sistant went  slowly,  bent  to  the  ground  and  breathing 
heavily.  ^ 

They  continued  on  their  way  without  seeing  anything 
ahead.  Though  the  distance  between  them  and  their  ob- 
ject  was  only  200  yards,  it  seemed  to  them  from  time  to 
time  as  if  they  had  lost  their  bearings  and  were  goin^ 
in  the  wrong  direction. 

Soon  they  were  aware  of  a  heavy,  suffocating  smell- 
the  next  moment  there  loomed  up  before  their  eyes  a 
sombre  silhouette  of  a  building.  It  stood  there  envel- 
oped  m  fog. 

Reaching  a  corner  of  the  house,  the  Lieutenant  stopped 
short,  drew  from  his  ulster  a  big  field  revolver  and  whis- 
pered to  the  man  to  come  near. 

It  seemed  that  his  main  care  was  not  to  carry  out  the 
task  he  had  undertaken,  but  to  hide  conveniently  from  the 
Russian  fire,  and  then  slip  off  to  the  rear  as  soon  as  the 
house  caught  fire.  He  figured  that  while  the  flames  were 
spreading  over  the  structure,  and  before  they  had  reached 
the  last  wall,  he  could  quietly  and  without  the  least  dan- 
ger remain  under  shelter.  As  soon  as  the  fire  enveloped 
the  structure,  and  before  the  walls  began  crumbling,  he 
would  run  back  in  time  to  avoid  exposure  by  the  con- 
flagration. 

With  this  in  view,  he  gave  orders  to  his  subordinate  to 
pile  up  straw  on  the  side  of  the  building  directlv  facing 
the  trenches.  In  the  meantime  the  officer,  having  taken 
shelter  behind  the  opposite  wall,  lit  a  cigar  and  remained 
waiting  for  developments. 

A  few  moments  of  long  and  painful  suspense  followed 
I  he  poor  Lieutenant  was  in  a  state  of  frenzy.  It  was 
not  the  personal  danger  alone  that  now  excited  his  imagi- 
nation.    He  was  tormented  by  the  mystic  fear  of  that 


The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty    41 

which  he  was  about  to  carry  out.  In  the  darkness  he 
drew  a  sombre  sketch  of  all  that  was  hidden  behind  the 
wall,  the  inevitable  which  he  was  to  face  within  a  few 
moments. 

How  many  of  them  are  there?  In  what  stage  of  de- 
composition?   How  do  they  lie? 

The  officer  suddenly  recalled  a  conversation  in  which 
some  one  had  told  him  that  when  the  flames  touched  the 
dead  in  the  crematory  they  coiled  and  twisted  as  if  alive. 
In  his  excited  imagination  he  quickly  pictured  a  wild 
dance  of  the  dead  which  was  about  to  begin. 

"When  they  calm  down,"  he  thought,  "after  they  are 
burned,  as  soon  as  roast  meat  is  scented  I  will  run,  and 
then  let  the  Russians  shoot  at  them.  All  I  have  to  do  is 
to  get  away  in  time.  If  we  were  only  done  with  this! 
Quick !  Quick !" 

At  this  moment  he  became  aware  of  a  pleasant  smell  of 
straw  smoke,  and  immediately  afterward  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  structure  burst  into  a  bright  flame.  Almost 
simultaneously  with  the  flash  firing  began  from  the  Rus- 
sian trenches,  and  it  seemed  to  the  officer  that  a  few 
bullets  hissed  near  him. 

The  soldier  succeeded  in  pouring  a  great  quantity  of 
kerosene  into  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  fire  spread 
with  unusual  swiftness.  In  two  minutes  the  structure 
was  all  ablaze. 

V— 'THESE  WERE  THE  HORRIBLE  VISIONS" 

The  officer  stood  at  the  open  door,  watching  curiously 
the  interior  of  the  main  room.  Scattered  all  over  the 
floor  there  lay  contorted  and  twisted  forms.  They  lay  in 
irregular  heaps.  It  was  an  appalling  and  gruesome  sight. 
From  somewhere  protruded  some  one's  long,  bare  legs  ; 
near  the  wall  hngered  a  lonely  arm,  curled,  swollen,  and 


42     The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty 

slightly  lifted,  it  hung  in  a  threatening  posture ;  from  un- 
der a  tattered  old  military  coat  projected  a  thick  brush 
of  black-blue  hair ;  and  at  some  distance,  leaning  on  the 
furnace,,  there  half  sat  the  mighty  figure  of  a  stately 
corpse.  The  majestic  body  was  bent  in  gloom,  two  huge, 
rough,  and  calloused  hands  supporting  a  big  head. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  the  Lieutenant  as  if  he  heard 
some  one  groan.  The  sound  became  more  and  more 
audible,  coming  nearer  and  nearer ;  one  voice,  a  second, 
somebody  called,  a  cry  rang  out,  and  suddenly  pandemo- 
nium broke  loose.  Air-rending  cries  came  from  all  sides, 
and  men  began  to  drop,  one  by  one,  falling  about  the 
officer  and  stretching  at  his  feet.  Some  fell  straight  from 
the  ceiling  to  the  earthen  floor,  others  came  creeping  down 
the  ladder;  they  dropped  into  the  flames,  choking  and 
writhing  in  deadly  agony. 

The  officer,  half  dead  from  fright,  drew  his  revolver 
and  opened  fire.  He  ceased  firing  when  his  supply  of 
bullets  gave  out.  His  ammunition  gone,  the  Lieutenant 
threw  down  the  weapon  and  ran.  No  one  will  ever 
know  the  number  of  unfortunates  he  thus  killed.  All  I 
know  is  that  of  all  the  men  hiding  in  the  garret  of  that 
farm  only  one  was  saved.  It  was  he  who  told  me  this 
terrible  tale.  He  did  this  while  lying  in  one  of  our  hos- 
pitals. According  to  his  version,  there  were  at  the  time 
in  the  building  a  great  number  of  wounded  soldiers,  who 
had  come  there  during  the  last  engagement.  When  fire 
was  set  to  the  house,  they  endeavored  to  get  down.  All 
perished.  Some  were  burned  alive,  while  others  were 
shot  to  death  by  their  own  officer.  Among  those  who 
perished  was  also  the  soldier  who  had  served  as  the 
Lieutenant's  assistant. 

These  were  the  horrible  visions.  I  saw  them  every 
time  I  chanced  to  pass  the  ruined  and  devastated  spot. 

The  fate  of  the  vain  and  unhappy  officer  does  not  m 


The  Blood  of  the  Russians  in  Fight  for  Liberty    43 

the  least  concern  me.  I  am  not  even  disposed  to  blame 
him  for  his  weakness.  For  this  we  can  only  pity  a  man. 
One  is  bound  to  pity  also  those  who  met  death  at  his 
hands. 

But  for  some  reason  or  other  I  cannot  help  remember- 
ing the  wounded  little  girl.  There  she  lay,  dying  from 
loss  of  blood;  there  at  the  turning  of  the  footpath,  near 
the  two  little  birch  trees. 


MY  EXPERIENCES   IN   THE   WAR 
HOSPITALS  OF  RUMANIA 

The  Horrors  of  the  Little  Balkan  Kingdom 

Told  by  Queen  Marie  of  Rumania 

Driven  into  exile  with  her  many  subjects,  who  had  to  retreat 
before  the  Hun  just  as  the  Belgians  and  Serbians  were  forced 
out  of  their  peaceful  homes  in  the  debacle  of  war,  Queen  Marie 
of  Rumania  turned  to  the  pen,  and  with  it  pictured  the  horrors 
that  have  engulfed  the  pretty  little  Balkan  kingdom.  Queen 
Marie  was  married  to  King  Ferdinand  in  1893,  and  was  then 
the  Princess  Marie  of  Edinburgh,  the  daughter  of  Alfred  I, 
Duke  of  Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,  Prince  of  Great  Britain  and  Ire- 
land. Noted  for  her  beauty,  idolized  by  her  people,  she  has 
devoted  herself  to  Red  Cross  work  and  the  care  of  her  stricken 
people  ever  since  the  entry  of  Rumania  into  the  war.  In  de- 
voting her  pen  to  the  cause  of  her  adopted  country,  Queen 
Marie  has  followed  the  example  of  her  husband's  aunt,  the  late 
Queen  Elizabeth  (Carmen  Sylva),  whose  charming  books  of 
poetry  and  prose  deal  almost  entirely  with  the  customs  and 
folklore  of  Rumania.  In  this  article  in  the  Philadelphia  Public 
Ledger  Queen  Marie  gives  a  graphic  picture  of  war-torn 
Rumania. 

I— "I  WATCH  MY  RUMANIANS  GO  TO  WAR" 

The  trains  are  passing  .  .  .  passing  .  .  .  and  the 
cargo  they  are  hurrying  thither  is  the  youth  of  our  coun- 
try and  the  hope  of  our  homes.  .  .  . 

By  thousands  they  are  massed  together;  they  sit  on 
the  roofs  of  the  wagons,  they  hang  on  to  their  sides,  they 
balance  themselves  in  perilous  positions,  but  all  of  them 
are  gay,  .  .  .  they  shout,  they  sing,  they  laugh.  .  .  . 

And  the  trains  pass,  pass  ...  all  day  the  trains  pass. 

44 


My  Experiences  in  the   War  Hosp'tals  45 

.  .  .  With  hands  full  of  flowers  we  hurry  to  the  stations ; 
our  hearts  are  heavy;  we  long  to  say  words  they  will 
remember,  to  tell  them  what  we  feel,  but  their  voices 
raised  in  chorus  drown  all  we  would  say. 

One  cry  is  on  every  lip  when  they  see  me,  "We  are 
going!  Going  gladly,  going  to  victory,  so  that  you  may 
become  Empress — Empress  of  all  the  Rumanians!" 
There  is  hardly  a  voice  that  does  not  say  it ;  it  is  the  cry 
of  every  heart ;  they  hope  it,  they  believe  it,  they  mean 
it  to  me,  and  I  smile  back  at  them  offering  them  my 
flowers,  which  they  clutch  at  with  eager  hands. 

And  thus  the  trains  pass  .  .  .  pass.  .  .  . 

II— "THE  SOLDIERS  SHOWERED  ME  WITH 
FLOWERS" 

One  evening  the  sun  was  going  down  in  glowing 
glory,  turning  all  it  shone  over  into  glittering  gold.  I 
was  late,  other  duties  having  kept  me  back;  the  train  I 
had  come  to  greet  was  already  moving  away. 

In  joyous  crowds  the  young  soldiers  thronged  the 
carriages;  others  had  been  before  me  to  deck  their  caps, 
their  tunics,  even  their  horses  and  cannons,  with  bright 
violet  asters  of  every  shade.  The  prodigious  radiance  of 
sunset  fell  over  all  those  flowers,  enhancing  their  beauty, 
as  though  even  the  heavens  were  doing  their  utmost  to 
render  more  blessed  the  departure  of  those  eager  boys, 
who  so  gayly  were  going  to  death. 

Hurriedly  I  ran  toward  the  moving  carriages,  dis- 
tressed at  being  late.  A  great  shout  mounted  from  a 
thousand  throats  as  they  recognized  me  and  a  shower  of 
flowers  fell  at  my  feet. 

From  their  caps,  their  tunics,  their  cannons  they  tore 
away  the  flowers  that  had  been  given  them  to  shower 
them  over  their  Queen,  while  the  usual  chorus  mounted 


46  My  Experiences  in  the   War  Hospitals 

to  the  skies:  "May  you  become  Empress — Empress  of 
all  the  Rumanians."  .  .  . 

And  always  more  flowers  fell  over  me ;  my  arms  were 
full ;  my  hands  could  hardly  hold  them ;  the  ground  was 
purple  where  I  stood.  .  .  . 

Long  did  I  remain  there  after  the  train  had  disap- 
peared. A  trail  of  smoke  against  the  orange  sky  alone 
marked  its  passage,  and  all  those  fading  flowers  at  my 
feet. 

As  one  looks  at  the  incomprehensible,  I  gazed  at  those 
two  long  rails  running  into  the  infinite,  there  seeming  to 
join  their  separate  ways,  and  wondered  toward  what  fate 
those  youths  were  hurrying;  wondered  if  their  dream 
v/ould  be  realized;  especially  I  wondered  how  many 
would  come  back.  .  .  . 

The  sun  had  set,  the  smoke  had  dissolved  into  noth- 
ing; the  voices  of  my  soldiers  were  but  a  remembrance 
.  .  .  slowly  I  turned  my  foot  toward  home.  .  .  . 

Ill— "I  BEND  OVER  THE  SUFFERING  FACES" 

All  day  long  I  have  been  moving  among  the  wounded, 
wandering  from  ward  to  ward — they  all  want  me  fo  come 
among  them,  each  soldier  desirous  to  see  his  Queen.  .  .  . 

Nerer  do  I  leave  a  call  unanswered;  everywhere  do  I 
go ;  no  sight  js  too  sad,  no  fatigue  is  too  great,  no  way 
too  long,  but  sometimes  it  h  to  me  as  though  I  were 
wandering  through  some  never-ending  dream. 

Bed  beside  bed  they  lie  there,  and  all  eyes  meet  me, 
follow  me,  consume  me ;  never  before  have  I  known  what 
it  means  to  be  the  prey  of  so  many  eyes.  .  .  .  They  seem 
to  be  drawing  my  heart  from  my  bosom,  to  be  a  weight 
I  can  hardly  bear! 

I  bend  over  suffering  faces,  clasp  outstretched  hands, 
tay  my  fingers  upon  heated  brows,  gaze  into  dying  eyes, 


My  Experiences  in  the  War  nospitals  47 

listen  to  whispered  words — and  everywhere  the  same 
wish  follows  me :  "May  you  become  Empress — Empress 
of  all  the  Rumanians  1"  Stiffening  lips  murmur  it  to  me, 
hopeful  voices  cry  it  out  to  me ;  it  goes  with  me  wherever 
I  move :  "What  matters  our  sufiferng  as  long  as  you  be- 
come Empress — Empress  of  all  the  Rumanians!"  In- 
finitely touching  are  the  words  when  they  mount  toward 
me  from  the  beds  of  so  many  wounded,  who  see  in  me 
the  realization,  the  incarnation  of  the  dream  for  which 
they  are  giving  their  lives. 

It  makes  me  feel  so  small,  so  humble  before  their 
stoic  endurance;  tears  come  to  my  eyes  and  yet,  because 
of  the  beauty  of  it,  I  have  a  great  wish  to  thank  God. 

Why  should  I  be  chosen  to  represent  an  ideal?  Why 
should  just  I  be  the  symbol?  What  right  have  I  to  stand 
above  them,  to  buy  glory  with  the  shedding  of  their 
blood?  .  .  . 

And  always  more  tenderly  do  I  pass  from  bed  to 
bed.  .  .  . 

That  was  at  a  time  when  hope  still  sang  in  every  soul, 
when  in  the  first  enthusiasm  all  hearts  beat  in  unison, 
when  belief  in  glorious  victory  gladdened  the  day.  .  .  . 

But  much  later,  under  widely  different  circumstances 
in  quite  another  place,  the  same  words  were  said  to  me 
by  one  who  could  not  see  my  face,  for  that  morning  he 
had  been  trepanned;  his  bandaged  head  was  lying  in  a 
pool  of  blood.  .  .  . 

Some  one  told  him  that  his  Queen  was  beside  him, 
that  she  had  come  to  see  him,  to  inquire  about  his  suffer- 
ings ;  to  help  him  if  he  needed  help. 

A  groping  hand  was  stretched  out  toward  me;  I  took 
it  in  mine,  whispering  words  of  comfort;  bending  low 
toward  the  parched  lips  that  were  murmuring  something 
that  at  first  I  could  not  understand.  The  man  had  no 
face,  no  eyes;  all  was  swathed  in  blood-stained  cloths. 


48  My  Experiences  in  the  War  Hospitals 

Then,  as  though  from  very  far,  came  the  words,  the 
same  brave  words:  "May  the  great  God  protect  you. 
May  He  let  you  Hve  to  become  Empress — Empress  of  all 
the  Rumanians!" 

IV— "I  PRAYED  TO  GOD  TO  LISTEN" 

It  was  to  me  as  though  something  very  wonderful  had 
quite  suddenly  descended  upon  the  distress  of  my  soul, 
something  very  holy,  very  beautiful ;  but  that  was  almost 
more  than  I  could  bear.  .  .  .  Touching  had  been  that 
wish  when  hope  shone  before  us  like  a  star,  but  now  it 
was  more  than  touching,  it  was  grand  and  sacred,  for  it 
was  pronounced  at  an  hour  when  darkest  disaster  had 
overthrown  our  land,  when  inch  by  inch  our  armies  were 
retreating  before  the  all-invading  foe.  There  in  that 
chamber  of  sufifering  those  dying  lips  still  spoke  of  the 
hope  they  clung  to,  of  the  dream  that,  in  spite  of  sacrifice, 
death  and  misery,  one  day  must  surely  come  true.  .  .  . 

That  dying  man  was  but  one  of  many,  a  voice  out  of 
the  unknown,  a  martyr  without  a  name;  but  his  words 
had  gone  home  to  my  heart. 

As  I  bent  over  him,  laying  my  hand  gently  upon  his 
crimson-stained  rags,  I  prayed  to  God  to  listen  to  his 
wish ;  prayed  that  the  blood  of  so  many  humble  heroes 
should  not  be  given  in  vain ;  prayed  that  when  that  .cfreat 
hour  of  liberation  should  sound  at  last  an  echo  of  the 
shout  of  victory  that  that  day  would  sound  over  all  our 
land  should  reach  the  heart  of  this  nameless  one  beyond 
the  shadow  into  which  he  was  sinking,  so  that  even 
beyond  the  grave  he  should  still  have  a  share  in  the 
glory  his  living  eyes  were  not  destined  to  see.  .  .  . 


"WITH  THE  GERMAN  ARMIES  IN 

THE  WEST"— VISITS  TO  THE 

GENERAL  STAFF 

Told  hy  Sven  Hedin,  Noted  Swedish  Explorer — Aw- 

thorized  Translation  from  the  Swedish 

hy  H,  G.  Dew  alt  erst  or  if 

This  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  narratives  of  the  War.  It  is 
a  great  historical  record,  as  well  as  a  fascinating  story  of  per- 
sonal experiences.  Dr.  Sven  Hedin  is  one  of  the  great  Swedish 
explorers  and  historians.  His  record  as  a  man  of  intrepid 
daring  is  known  throughout  Europe.  By  special  permission  of 
the  Kaiser,  Dr.  Hedin  was  commissioned  to  visit  and  observe  the 
German  Armies  in  Belgium  and  France.  He  is  the  friend  of 
Kings  and  was  received  with  open  arms  at  the  headquarters  of 
the  general  staff  of  the  German  Army.  These  experiences  he 
describes  in  a  volume  entitled  "With  the  German  Armies  in 
the  West,"  which  is  one  of  the  few  War  books  which  has  been 
accepted  by  the  German  government  as  a  true  record.  Dr. 
Hedin's  talks  with  the  Kaiser,  the  Crown  Prince,  and  the  Army 
Officers,  with  his  journeys  along  the  battle  grounds  of  the 
Western  front,  allow  us  to  look  behind  the  scenes  for  the  first 
time.  A  few  selections  from  his  remarkable  tales  are  here  given 
by  permission  of  his  publishers  John  Lane  Company. 

*  l_"ON  MY  WAY  TO  WILHELMSTRASSE, 
BERLIN" 

The  rain  falls  thick  and  heavy  and  patters  down  on  the 
dripping  lines  outside  my  balcony.  Berlin  is  dull  and 
miserable  in  the  autumn  when  the  rain  sweeps  its  long, 
monotonously  straight  streets  with  their  heavy,  dark 
houses.     Not  even  the  trooping  of  the  colors  and  the 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
in  original  sources. 

49 


50  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'' 

march  past  at  midday  raise  the  drooping  spirits,  and  only 
a  few  pedestrians  with  open  umbrellas  join  the  band  and 
march  in  step  with  the  soldiers.  No  calls  are  made,  no 
visits  paid,  for  the  whole  of  the  aristocracy  is  in  mourn- 
ing for  lost  relatives  and  everybody's  thoughts  are  cen- 
tered on  the  war.  Nobody  feels  inclined  for  the  futile 
pleasures  of  ordinary  times  when  the  newspapers  speak 
of  a  father  who  has  lost  four  sons  at  the  front,  or  of  a 
mother  whose  three  sons  have  each  died  a  hero's  death 
for  Emperor  and  country.  But  no  complaints  are  heard, 
no  tears  seen.  In  the  streets  one  seldom  sees  signs  of 
mourning.  There  is  perhaps  a  tacit  convention  not  to 
express  in  black  and  white  the  sorrow  which  is  felt  at  the 
bottom  of  the  heart,  but  to  make  the  grief  subservient  to 
the  proud  consciousness  that  the  beloved  one  has  fallen 
for  his  country,  never  to  return !  .  .  . 

But  the  rain  keeps  on  falling  and  beats  against  the  win- 
dow-panes. I  hurry  downstairs,  jump  into  a  taxi  and  in 
a  few  minutes  I  am  sitting  in  an  elegant  drawing-room 
at  the  dainty  new  residence  of  the  Swedish  Minister,  at 
the  corner  of  Friedrich  Wilhelmstrasse  and  Tiergarten- 
strasse,  chatting  with  old  friends — needless  to  say,  about 
the  war.  When  I  last  met  Count  Taube  in  Berlin,  I  had 
just  returned  from  a  long  journey  in  the  Far  East.  Now 
I  stood  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  journey,  which  might 
be  infinitely  longer  than  the  last!  Later  in  the  day  I 
visited  another  nobleman.  Prince  von  Wedel,  whom  I 
had  met  in  Vienna  when  he  was  ambassador  there,  and 
in  Strassburg  when  he  was  Governor.  We  had  much 
to  talk  about,  but  what  is  there  to  discuss  in  these  days 
but  the  great  and  bloody  drama  which  occupies  every- 
one's thoughts — the  War! 

My  most  important  visit  in  Berlin  was  to  the  Foreign 
Office.  But  before  narrating  what  took  place  there  I 
must  say  a  few  words  about  the  reasons  which  led  up 


'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  IVesf'  51 

to  my  journey.  It  was  desirable  that  no  one  in  a  re- 
sponsible position  in  Sweden  should  have  an  inkling  of 
my  journey  to  the  front.  Our  country  belonged  to  the 
neutral  states,  and  thus  no  authority  must  entertain  the 
slightest  shadow  of  suspicion  that  I  was  traveling  on  any 
sort  of  secret  mission.  No, — the  reason  was  a  very  sim- 
ple one.  Only  a  few  days'  journey  away  the  greatest  war 
of  all  time  was  being  waged.  It  was  clear  that  the  out- 
come of  this  struggle  would  decide  the  political  develop- 
ment for  the  next  fifty  or  hundred  years,  or  perhaps 
longer.  In  any  case  its  shadows  must  envelop  the  re- 
mainder of  the  lives  of  the  present  generation.  .  .  . 

Once  this  war  is  over,  whole  libraries  of  books  will  be 
written  about  it.  I  do  not  think  it  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  on  the  western  front  alone  upwards  of  a  million 
and  a  half  diaries  are  being  kept  at  the  present  moment. 
In  all  directions,  in  all  fighting  units  down  to  the  com- 
pany, the  platoon  and  the  battery,  official  war  journals 
are  being  kept  and  accounts  of  the  fighting  are  being 
prepared  from  the  bedrock  furnished  on  the  one  hand 
by  the  draft  of  outgoing  reports  and  on  the  other  by  in- 
coming papers,  orders,  reports  and  communications.  The 
soldiers  record  their  own  personal  experiences,  the  officers 
their  military  observations.  Many  a  note-book  has  no 
doubt  protected  a  heart  or  checked  the  death-dealing  bul- 
let. Thus  the  sections  of  the  German  General  Staff, 
whose  task  it  will  be  in  due  course  to  prepare  the  ma- 
terials, will  be  occupied  for  many  years  to  come  with 
this  monumental  labor. 

When  I  went  out  to  the  front,  it  was  clearly  established 
in  my  mind  that  my  narrative  would  be  quite  different 
from  the  military  accounts.  I  was  not  going  to  devote 
any  attention  to  matters  of  purely  military  science,  which 
could  only  be  dealt  with  by  experts. 


52  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'' 

II— "I  MEET  HERR  VON  ZIMMERMANN" 

— I  am  standin^s^  on  the  doorstep  and  ringing  the  bell 
at  the  Foreign  Office  at  y6  Wilhelmstrasse,  Berlin. 

The  Under  Secretary  of  State,  Herr  von  Zimmer- 
mann,  who  is  acting  Foreign  Minister  in  Berlin  whilst 
His  Excellency  von  Jagow  is  at  the  Main  Headquarters, 
received  me  with  open  arms  and  said  that  all  he  knew 
was  that  I  was  to  proceed  straightway  to  the  said  Head- 
quarters. 

"But  where  are  the  Main  Headquarters?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  a  secret,"  Herr  von  Zimmermann  answered, 
with  a  smile. 

"Good,  but  how  am  I  to  get  there?" 

"Oh,  the  Chief  of  the  Great  General  Staflf,  Colonel- 
General  von  Moltke,  has  given  instructions  that  a  car  is 
to  be  kept  at  your  disposal.  You  may  decide  yourself 
when  you  would  like  to  start.  An  officer  and  an  orderly 
will  accompany  you,  and  if  you  like  you  can  travel  to 
the  Main  Headquarters  day  and  night  without  stopping, 
or  you  can  choose  your  own  road  and  time.  In  fact,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  do  as  you  like." 

"And  afterwards?" 

"After  that  your  fate  will  rest  in  the  hands  of  His  Ex- 
cellency von  Moltke.  No  doubt  he  will  map  out  a  plan 
for  your  journey.  The  only  thing  you  have  to  think  about 
now  is  to  get  to  him." 

"And  where  shall  I  find  the  car?*' 

"This  paper  will  tell  you." 
.  Herr  von  Zimmermann  handed  me  a  permit  from  the 
Great  General  Staff  which  read  as  follows :  "The  bearer 
of  this  permit  is  entitled  to  use  the  relays  of  the  Im- 
perial Volunteer  Automobile  Corps  to  the  Main  Head- 
quarters. Everything  that  can  in  any  way  expedite  his 
journey  is  to  be  placed  at  his  disposal." 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'*  53 

III— "MY  ARRIVAL  AT  THE  GREAT  GENERAL 
STAFF  IN  LUXEMBURG" 

Still  as  ignorant  regarding  the  whereabouts  of  the 
Main  Headquarters  as  when  we  left  Berlin,  we  set  out 
from  Treves  in  the  morning  of  the  i8th  of  September, 
recrossed  the  Moselle,  and  cast  a  glance  up  at  the  heights 
from  which  on  August  4th  Frenchmen  in  mufti  were 
heliographing  to  the  airships,  who  wanted  to  know  how 
the  German  mobilization  was  getting  on.  At  the  flying 
station  we  stopped  a  moment  to  have  a  look  at  the  Taiibes 
in  their  canvas  sheds.  .  .  . 

Now  we  begin  to  look  about.  Yes,  it  is  obvious  that 
the  Main  Headquarters  are  still  at  Luxemburg.  Sea- 
tries  at  the  entrances  to  all  hotels,  soldiers  everywhere, 
officers  rushing  past  in  motor-cars.  In  a  market-place 
large  tents  have  been  put  up  for  horses,  and  round  them 
walk  the  sentries  smoking  their  pipes ;  in  another  open 
space  there  are  rows  of  motor-cars  laden  with  petrol 
and  oil  in  cylinders. 

We  must  observe  becoming  military  precision  in  our 
search  and  consequently  make  at  once  for  the  house  where 
the  Great  General  Staff  has  taken  up  its  quarters,  and 
which  in  ordinary  times  is  a  Luxemburg  school.  Von 
Krum  gets  down  and  soon  returns  with  the  intimation  that 
we  must  report  ourselves  to  a  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Hahnke.  He  sent  us  off  to  the  Chief  of  the  General 
Staff,  His  Excellency  von  Moltke,  who  with  his  charm- 
ing Swedish  Countess  has  just  sat  down  to  dinner  at  the 
Kolnischer  Hof,  where  they  reside.  The  Countess  was 
on  a  short  visit  to  Luxemburg  in  the  service  of  the  Red 
Cross.  Here  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  were  at  home,  for  I 
had  many  times  been  a  guest  in  their  hospitable  home  in 
Berlin.  As  calm  as  if  he  had  been  on  manoeuvers,  the 
Chief  lit  his  cigar  and  made  detailed  enquiries  about  my 


54  *'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West" 

plans  and  wishes.  I  said  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  front 
and  see  as  much  as  I  might  be  allowed  to,  mentioning 
that  it  was  my  intention  subsequently  to  describe  what 
I  had  seen  of  the  war  with  my  own  eyes.  If  possible 
I  wanted  to  get  an  impression  of  a  modern  battle,  and 
hoped  also  to  get  an  opportunity  of  visiting  the  occupied 
parts  of  Belgium. 

The  Chief  thought  for  a  moment.  Permission  to  visit 
the  front  had  already  been  granted  to  me  by  the  Em- 
peror, and  it  only  remained  to  decide  which  would  be  the 
best  place  for  me  to  begin  my  observations.  The  army 
of  the  German  Crown  Prince  was  the  nearest,  only  a 
couple  of  hours  away.  The  Chief  would  arrange  every- 
thing for  my  journey,  and  I  was  shortly  to  receive  de- 
tails of  the  programme.  "Of  course,  there  can  be  no 
question  of  safety  in  the  fighting  zone,"  he  said,  "it  is  not 
far  away.  If  you  listen  you  can  hear  the  thunder  of 
guns  from  Verdun."  .  .  . 

It  would  take  too  long  to  describe  all  the  interesting 
acquaintances  I  made  in  Luxemburg  and  to  introduce  to 
the  reader  all  the  eminent  men  with  whom  I  spoke  during 
the  two  days  I  spent  in  this  little  town.  Suffice  it  to 
mention  the  Imperial  Chancellor  von  Bethmann  Holweg, 
the  Foreign  Minister  von  Jagow,  the  War  Minister  Lieu- 
tenant-General  von  Falkenhayn,  and  the  Chief  of  the 
Imperial  Volunteer  Automobile  Corps  the  young  Prince 
Waldemar,  son  of  Prince  Henry. 

The  Main  Headquarters  are  the  head  or  rather  the 
brain  of  the  army  in  the  field,  where  all  plans  are  made 
and  from  which  all  orders  are  issued.  It  is  an  incredibly 
complicated  apparatus  with  an  organization  of  which 
every  detail  has  been  prepared  in  advance.  When  an  ap- 
paratus of  this  kind  is  installed  in  a  small  town  like 
Luxemburg,  all  hotels,  schools,  barracks.  Government 
offices,  as  well  as  a  number  of  private  houses,  have  to  be 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West"  55 

requisitioned  for  billets.  The  invaded  country  has  no 
alternative  but  to  resign  itself  to  its  fate.  But  nothing 
is  taken  promiscuously,  everything  will  be  made  good 
after  the  war.  The  War  Ministry  is  housed  in  an  hotel, 
the  General  Staff — as  already  mentioned — in  a  school, 
the  officers  of  the  automobile  corps,  in  a  private  house, 
and  so  on.  The  Commander-in-Chief,  von  Moltke,  re- 
sided at  the  Kolnischer  Hof,  the  Imperial  Chancellor  and 
the  Foreign  Minister  in  an  exceptionally  elegant  private 
house,  whilst  the  Emperor's  personal  staff  and  suite  were 
stopping  at  the  Hotel  Staar,  where  a  room  was  also  placed 
at  my  disposal.  .  .  . 

IV— "AN  INVITATION  TO  DINE  WITH  THE 
EMPEROR" 

Directly  I  arrived  in  Luxemburg,  I  was  honored  with 
an  invitation  to  dine  with  the  Emperor  William  the  fol- 
lowing day  at  one  o'clock.  Most  of  the  guests  were 
stopping  at  the  Hotel  Staar,  and  the  cars  were  to  leave 
there  in  good  time.  I  went  with  Adjutant-General,  Lieu- 
tenant-General  von  Gontard,  Acting  General  a  la  suite. 
The  street  close  to  the  Imperial  residence  was  railed  off,, 
the  barriers  being  withdrawn  by  the  soldiers  to  let  our 
car  pass.  The  Emperor  lived  in  the  house  of  the  German 
Minister  and  had  his  private  apartments  on  the  first  floor. 
On  the  ground  floor  was  the  chancellerie,  where  enormous 
maps  of  the  theaters  of  war  were  mounted  on  easels,  and 
next  to  it  was  the  dining-room,  quite  a  small  apartment. 

The  guests,  all  in  field  uniform,  without  any  display, 
for-gathered  in  the  chancellerie.  I  myself  was  dressed 
in  the  most  flagrant,  everyday  clothes — in  the  field  noth- 
ing is  carried  for  show.  Among  the  Emperor's  suite  I 
recognized  a  couple  of  old  acquaintances,  the  Headquar- 
ters   Commandant,    Adjutant-General,    Colonel-General 


56  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West" 

von  Plessen,  and  the  President  of  the  Navy  Council,  Ad- 
miral von  Miiller,  of  Swedish  descent,  who  spoke  Swed- 
ish as  fluently  as  German.  The  others  were  his  Excel- 
lency von  Treutler  and  Lieutenant-General  Baron 
Marschall,  Colonel  von  Mutius,  acting  aide-de-camp,  the 
Princes  Pless  and  Arnim  and  the  Emperor's  body-physi- 
cian, Dr.  Ilberg.    We  were  thus  ten  all  told. 

V— "THE  DOOR  OPENED  .  .  .  EMPEROR 
WILLIAM  ENTERED" 

At  the  stroke  of  one  the  door  from  the  vestibule  was 
opened  and  Emperor  William  entered  with  a  firm,  quiet 
step.  All  glances  were  fixed  on  the  strongly  built,  well- 
knit  figure.  The  room  became  as  quiet  as  the  grave.  One 
realized  that  one  was  in  the  presence  of  a  great  personal- 
ity. The  little  room,  otherwise  so  humble,  now  had  a 
deeper  significance.  Here  was  the  axis,  the  pivot  round 
which  the  world's  happenings  turned.  Here  was  the 
center  from  which  the  war  was  directed.  Germany  is  to 
be  crushed,  so  say  its  enemies.  "Magst  ruhig  sein,"  * 
says  the  German  army  to  its  Fatherland.  And  here  in 
our  midst  stands  its  supreme  war-lord,  a  picture  of  man- 
liness, resolution  and  honorable  frankness.  Around  him 
flit  the  thoughts  and  passions  of  the  whole  world.  He 
is  the  object  of  love,  blind  confidence  and  admiration,  but 
also  of  fear,  hate  and  calumny.  Round  him,  who  loves 
peace,  rages  the  greatest  war  of  all  times,  and  his  name 
is  ringed  with  strife.  .  .  . 

Any  feeling  of  timidity  one  may  have  had  whilst  wait- 
ing for  the  most  powerful  and  most  remarkable  man  in 
the  world  vanished  completely  once  the  Emperor,  after 
a  more  than  hearty  handshake  and  a  cheery  welcome, 

*  From  the  line  "Lieh  Vaterland  mapst  ruhiq  sein'*  ("Be  undis- 
mayed, dear  Fatherland"),  in  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein. 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West"  57 

began  to  speak.  His  voice  is  manly  and  military,  he 
speaks  extraordinarily  plainly  without  slurring  over  a 
single  syllable,  he  is  never  at  a  loss  for  a  word,  but  al- 
ways strikes  the  nail  on  the  head — often  in  exceedingly 
forceful  terms.  He  punctuates  his  sentences  with  quick 
and  expressive  gestures.  His  speech  flows  smoothly, 
is  always  terse  and  interesting  and  is  often  suddenly  in- 
terrupted by  questions  delivered  with  lightning  precision, 
which  one  must  endeavor  to  answer  equally  quickly  and 
clearly.  A  good  answer  never  fails  to  elicit  the  Em- 
peror's approval.  He  is  exceedingly  impulsive  and  his 
conversation  is  a  mixture  of  earnest  and  jest.  A  ready 
repartee  or  an  amusing  tale  causes  him  to  laugh  so  heart- 
ily that  his  shoulders  shake  with  it. 

At  the  Emperor's  bidding  we  passed  into  the  dining- 
room.  Admiral  von  Miiller  sat  on  the  left,  I  on  the  right 
of  our  august  host,  and  opposite  him  was  Adjutant-Gen- 
eral von  Gontard.  The  table  was  simply  laid.  The  only 
luxury  that  could  be  discovered  was  a  bell  of  gold  placed 
in  front  of  the  Emperor's  cover,  and  which  he  rang  when 
a  new  course  was  to  be  brought  in.  The  dinner  was 
equally  plain,  consisting  of  soup,  meat  with  vegetables,  a 
sweet  dish  and  fruit  with  claret.  I  have  seldom  been  as 
hungry  as  when  I  rose  from  this  table:  not  on  account 
of  the  dishes,  but  because  there  had  not  been  a  moment's 
silence  up  to  the  time  when  the  bell  rang  for  the  last 
time  and  bade  the  uniformed  servants  withdraw  our 
chairs  as  we  rose.  The  Emperor  talked  to  me  all  the 
time.  He  began  by  reminding  me  of  my  last  lecture  in 
Berlin,  at  which  he  was  present,  and  he  conjectured  that 
Tibet,  where  I  had  passed  through  such  stirring  times, 
would  probably  soon  be  the  only  country  in  the  world 
where  peace  reigned.  Then  we  spoke  of  the  political 
position  and  of  the  storms  that  are  sweeping  over  Eu- 
rope. .  .  . 


58  'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'* 

On  a  table  in  the  chancellerie  were  cigars  and  ciga- 
rettes round  a  lighted  candle.  Here  the  conversation  was 
continued  with  zest  and  vigor,  and  jest  and  earnest,  hor- 
rors of  war  and  funny  stories  were  all  jumbled  together; 
finally  the  Emperor  took  his  leave,  wishing  me  a  suc- 
cessful and  instructive  trip,  and  went  up  to  his  apart- 
ments, where  no  doubt  piles-of  papers  and  letters,  reports 
and  telegrams  awaited  him. 

The  talk  of  the  Emperor  having  aged  during  the  war, 
and  of  the  war  with  all  its  labors  and  anxieties  having 
sapped  his  strength  and  health,  is  all  nonsense.  His  hair 
is  no  more  pronouncedly  iron  gray  than  before  the  war, 
his  face  has  color,  and  far  from  being  worn  and  thini 
he  is  plump  and  strong,  bursting  with  energy  and  rude 
health.  A  man  of  Emperor  William's  stamp  is  in  his 
element  when,  through  the  force  of  circumstances,  he  is 
compelled  to  stake  all  he  possesses  and  above  all  himself 
for  the  good  and  glory  of  his  country. 

VI— -I  GO  TO  SEE  THE  CROWN  PRINCE" 

I  returned  to  the  Hotel  Staar  just  in  time  to  meet  the 
young  lieutenant  who  had  been  instructed  by  General 
Moltke  to  take  me  to  the  Headquarters  of  the  Crown 
Pnnce's  Army.  His  name  was  Hans  von  Gwinner  and 
he  is  the  son  of  the  great  banker  and  Bagdad  Railway 
magnate  m  Berlin.  He  was  a  wide-awake  and  capable 
young  fellow  and  drove  his  car  himself.  I  sat  down  be- 
side him,  whilst  the  orderly  accompanying  us  took  his 
seat  inside. 

It  poured  with  rain  as  we  left  the  town.  The  road 
was  slippery,  but  we  had  studded  tires  and  the  lieutenant 
drove  at  terrific  speed.  We  had  started  off  rather  late 
and  we  wanted  to  get  in  before  dark.  It  is  better  thus, 
otherwise  one  is  not  entirely  safe  from  the  attentions  of 
franctirenrs.     A  whole  lot  of  them  had  recently  been 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West"  59 

caught  by  the  Fifth  Army  and  shot  without  hesita- 
tion. ... 

We  stop  outside  the  house  in  which  the  General  in 
Command  of  the  5th  Army  has  taken  up  his  quarters. 
I  was  able  to  speak  there  without  difficulty  to  one  of  my 
friends  from  the  Main  Headquarters,  Landrat  Baron  von 
Maltzahn,  Member  of  the  Reichstag  and  a  personal  friend 
of  the  Crown  Prince.  He  was  able  to  give  me  the  wel- 
come news  that  I  was  expected  and  that  I  must  hurry  in 
order  to  be  in  time  for  supper,  which  was  served  at  eight 
o'clock.  So  we  drove  at  once  up  to  the  little  French 
chateau,  where  His  I.  &  R.  Highness  had  elected  to  stay. 
Here  I  said  good-bye  to  my  excellent  friend  Lieutenant 
von  Gwinner  and  thanked  him  for  his  companionship. 
Thus  he,  too,  disappears  from  my  horizon,  and  I  stand 
before  a  new  association  of  acquaintances  and  friend- 
ships. 

Footmen  in  military  uniforms  at  once  took  charge  of 
my  baggage  and  conducted  me  to  my  room  on  the  first 
floor,  next  door  to  the  Crown  Prince's  private  apart- 
ments. A  few  minutes  before  eight  the  acting  Lord-in- 
Waiting,  Court-Marshal  von  Behr,  knocked  at  my  door. 
He  was  a  pleasant  young  man  of  distinguished  and  at- 
tractive appearance,  and  he  had  come  to  bring  me  in  to 
supper.  We  went  out  through  the  upper  vestibule  and 
down  the  stairs,  from  the  landing  of  which  we  were  for- 
tunate enough  to  witness  a  pleasing  ceremony.  In  the 
lower  hall  stood  a  number  of  officers  in  line,  and  opposite 
them  some  twenty  soldiers  formed  up  in  the  same  way. 
Then  came  the  Crown  Prince  William,  tall,  slim  and 
royally  straight,  dressed  in  a  dazzling  white  tunic  and 
wearing  the  Iron  Cross  of  the  first  and  second  class ;  he 
walked  with  a  firm  step  between  the  lines  of  soldiers. 
An  adjutant  followed  him,  carrying  in  a  casket  a  number 
of  Iron  Crosses.    The  Crown  Prince  took  one  and  handed 


6o  ''With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West" 

it  to  the  nearest  officer,  whom  he  thanked  for  the  services 
which  he  had  rendered  to  his  Emperor  and  country,  and 
then  with  a  hearty  handshake  he  congratulated  the  hero 
whom  he  had  thus  honored. 

When  all  the  officers  had  received  their  decorations, 
the  reward  for  their  bravery,  the  turn  came  of  the  sol- 
diers, the  ceremony  being  precisely  the  same  as  with  the 
officers ;  but  I  found  it  hard  to  distinguish  what  the  sol- 
diers said  in  their  loud,  rough  and  nervous  voices.  At 
last  I  distinguished  the  words:  Danke  untertdnigst  Kai- 
serliche  Hoheit  (I  humbly  thank  your  Imperial  High- 
ness). 

VII— "AT  SUPPER  WITH  THE  CROWN  PRINCE" 

When  the  knights  of  the  Iron  Cross  had  taken  their 
departure,  we  went  down  into  the  hall,  where  the  Crown 
Prince  stepped  up  to  me  and  bade  me  heartily  welcome 
to  his  Headquarters  and  to  the  seat  of  war.  The  meal, 
which  might  as  well  have  been  called  dinner  as  supper, 
was  attended  by  the  following  gentlemen:  Lieutenant- 
<jeneral  Schmidt  von  Knobelsdorff,  Chief  of  Staff  of  the 
5th  Army,  Court-Marshal  von  Behr,  Chief  of  the  Medical 
Corps,  Body-Physician  Professor  Widenmann,  Majors 
von  der  Planitz,  von  Miiller,  personal  Adjutant  to  H.I. 
&  R.H.,  and  Heymann,  Lieutenant  von  Zobeltitz  and  a 
few  members  of  the  Staff,  who  arrived  later  after  the 
day's  work  in  the  field  and  took  their  seats  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  table. 

Would  you  like  to  know  what  the  German  Crown 
Prince,  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia,  eats  for  supper? 
Here  is  the  menu :  cabbage  soup,  boiled  beef  with  horse- 
radish and  potatoes,  wild  duck  with  salad,  fruit,  wine, 
and  coffee  with  cigars.  And  what  would  you  say  the 
conversation  was  about?    It  is  hard  to  say  exactly,  but 


"IViih  tJie  German  Armies  in  ike  West"  bi 

we  traveled  over  almost  the  whole  world  with  the  ease 
bred  by  familiarity.  The  Crown  Prince,  like  the  Em- 
peror, began  with  Tibet,  and  from  there  it  was  but  a 
step  across  the  Himalayas  to  the  palms  of  the  Hugh 
Delta,  the  pagodas  of  Benares,  the  silver  moonlight  over 
Taj  Mahal,  the  tigers  of  the  jungle  and  the  music  of  the 
crystal  waves  of  India  beating  against  the  rocks  of  Mala- 
bar point.  We  also  spoke  of  old  unforgettable  memories 
and  of  common  friends  who  now  love  us  no  longer — of 
the  brave  and  famous  Kitchener,  the  conqueror  of  Om.- 
durman  and  South  Africa,  of  the  Maharajahs  and  their 
fairy-like  splendor  at  Bikanir,  Kutch  Behar,  Gwalior, 
Kashmir  and  Idar. 

We  also  talked  about  the  war  and  its  horrors,  and  the 
terrible  sacrifices  it  demands.  "But  it  cannot  be  helped," 
said  the  Crown  Prince,  "our  Fatherland  asks  us  to  give 
all  we  have,  and  we  will,  we  must  win,  even  if  the  whole 
world  takes  up  arms  against  us." 

"Is  not  the  calm  here  wonderful !  We  seem  to  be  living 
tonight  in  the  most  absolute  peace,  and  yet  it  is  but  a 
couple  of  hours'  drive  to  the  firing  line,"  observes  my 
Imperial  host  after  listening  to  a  short,  concise  and  satis- 
factory report  made  in  a  ringing  voice  by  an  officer  who 
has  just  entered.  "Yes,  your  Imperial  Highness,  I  had 
imagined  the  Staff  Headquarters  of  an  army  to  resemble 
a  buzzing  beehive,  but  now  that  I  have  the  reality  before 
me,  I  find  no  trace  of  anxiety  or  nervousness,  nothing 
but  calm  and  assurance  everywhere.  But  what  I  should 
like  to  see  most  of  all  would  be  a  battle,  for  I  suspect  that 
in  common  with  most  other  civilians  I  have  formed  an 
erroneous  opinion  on  this  subject." 

The  Crown  Prince  smiles  and  answers:  "Yes,  battle 
painters  like  Neuville  and  Detaille  would  have  little  use 
for  their  art  in  these  days.  Of  the  fighting  men  one  sees 
practically  nothing,  for  they  are  concealed  by  the  ground 


62  'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'* 

and  in  the  trenches,  and  it  is  rather  dangerous  to  get  too 
close  to  a  bayonet  charge — unless  one's  duty  takes  one 
there." 

What  life  and  spirit  at  the  Crown  Prince's  Headquar- 
ters! Everything  was  gay  with  the  freshness  of  youth, 
and  devoid  of  restraint.  No  trace  of  the  stiffness  of 
court  ceremonial.  Even  General  Schmidt,  who  usually 
maintained  the  strictest  discipline,  was  infected  by  the 
prevailing  spirit  of  camaradie.  But  owing  to  the  terrible 
burden  of  work  which  rested  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
Chief  of  Staff,  it  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  come  in  for 
his  meals  after  the  others.  The  supper,  or  rather  the 
talk  after  it,  went  on  till  about  eleven — these  were  the 
only  hours  when  one  could  meet  in  quiet,  for  during  the 
day  everyone  was  busy  with  his  duties,  and  the  Crown 
Prince  then  occupied  his  post  as  commanding  officer  at 
suitable  points  at  the  front. 

The  chateau  where  we  were  staying  belonged  to  an 
aristocratic  French  lady — if  I  remember  rightly  her  name 
was  du  Vernier.  When  the  war  broke  out  she  moved  to 
Bordeaux.  On  her  return  after  the  contest  she  will  find 
her  chateau,  her  estates  and  the  beautiful  park  in  the 
same  condition  as  when  she  went  away.  There  was  a 
certain  aristocratic  grandeur  about  the  chateau,  though 
signs  of  decay  were  already  making  themselves  appar- 
ent. On  the  mantelpiece  in  my  room  stood  a  pendulum 
clock  of  gilt  bronze  of  an  antique  mythological  design,  and 
on  each  side  stood  a  couple  of  gorgeous  candelabra.  The 
walls  were  decorated  with  a  few  unassuming  pictures, 
amongst  them  a  portrait  of  an  old  French  warrior. 

I  open  my  window,  it  is  pitch-dark  outside,  and  the 
rain  falls  close  and  heavy  upon  the  trees  and  lawns  out- 
side. Tired  after  a  somewhat  ambitious  day's  work,  I 
hurry  to  bed,  the  more  so  as  I  suspect  the  next  day's 
programme  to  be  no  less  exacting.  .  .  . 


'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  Wesf  63 

VIII— WITH  THE  GERMAN  SOLDIERS— "TO 
VICTORY  OR  DEATH" 

But  events  move  all  too  fast.     Observations  and  im- 
pressions follow  so  quickly  upon  one  another  that  it  is 
difficult  to  assimilate  them  all.    The  whole  road  is  full  of 
supply    columns   moving   southward,   and   we   meet   in- 
numerable empty  transport  lorries  on  the  way  north,  to 
be  reloaded  at  some  railway  station.     Here  we  also  see 
fresh  young  troops,  all  strapping  fellows,  who  have  come 
direct  from  Germany  to  go  straight  to  victory  or  death. 
All  are  jolly  and  eager;  truly,  they  look  as  if  the  whole 
affair  were  to  them  but  an  autumn  manoeuver,  and  as 
if  they  felt  no  trace  of  excitement.     They  march  along 
with  easy  bearing  and  sing  merry  soldiers'  ditties  under 
the  leaden  skies  now  darkening  this  unhappy,  bleeding 
France.     They  light  their  pipes  and  their  eternal  ciga- 
rettes, laugh  and  chat— as  if  they  were  going  to  a  picnic 
in  the  country.     In  reality  they  are  going  out  to  fill  the 
gaps  made  by  the  French  fire  in  the  ranks  of  their  com- 
rades.   They  are  Ersatztruppen,  i.e.,  reinforcements,  but 
I  do  not  see  a  single  face  which  betrays  the  slightest  feel- 
ing that  death  is  near.     They  hear  the  thunder  of  the 
guns  better  than  we  do,   for  the  humming  of  the  car 
drowns  all  other  sounds.    But  they  seem  to  delight  in  the 
dull  music,  and  yet  their  place  is  far  in  advance  of  the 
artillery  positions.     Ersatztriippen!  it  means  that  their 
duty  is  to  replace  the  fallen,  and  that  the  same  fate  awaits 
themselves.    Yet  they  are  gay  and  happy.    ''Duke  et  de- 
corum est  pro  patria  mori."  .  .  . 

We  now  begin  to  notice  that  we  are  approaching  the 
firing  line.  The  whole  road  is  encumbered  with  troops. 
Here  comes  a  detachment  of  wounded  on  foot,  with 
bandages  round  heads  and  hands,  or  with  the  arm  in  a 


64  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'* 

sling.  We  meet  an  empty  ammunition  column,  an  end- 
less string  of  rattling  wagons. 

The  artillery  ammunition  column  which  we  are  just 
now  passing  is  an  impressive  sight.  The  noise  of  these 
vehicles,  dull  and  heavy,  is  quite  different  from  that  of 
the  empty  wagons  on  our  left,  but  then  they  are  loaded 
to  the  top  with  heavy  ammunition,  shells  for  2i-cm. 
mortars  at  Septsarges  and  neighbouring  villages.  Every 
ammunition  wagon — consisting  of  limber  and  wagon 
body — with  its  team  of  six  horses  requires  the  services 
of  six  men.  Three  of  them — drivers — ride  on  the  off- 
side horses,  two  are  seated  on  the  limber,  and  one  facing 
the  rear  on  the  wagon  body.  They  are  armed  with 
Mauser  pistols  fastened  on  the  left  side  of  the  belt,  but 
the  swords  of  the  drivers  are  securely  strapped  on  to  the 
left  side  of  the  saddle. 

The  horses  are  fat  and  sleek,  and  pull  without  exert- 
ing themselves  unduly.  They  move  at  a  walking  pace — 
anything  else  would  be  imposible  on  this  road.  ,  It  is  a 
far  finer  sight  to  see  one  of  these  columns  trundling  along 
at  full  speed  with  the  horses  moving  at  a  sharp  trot  or 
gallop.  Even  at  the  pace  at  which  they  are  now  travel- 
ling these  endless  columns  are  an  impressive  and  attrac- 
tive sight.  What  does  it  matter  if  the  helmets,  in  order 
not  to  glitter  and  attract  attention,  are  concealed  by  a 
cover  which  even  hides  the  spike  surmounting  them; 
what  does  it  matter  if  the  men's  uniforms  are  of  the  same 
dirty  grey  as  the  clay  and  mud  of  the  soil?  The  whole 
team  looks  picturesque  enough  with  its  massive,  solid 
wagon,  its  pole,  its  leather  fittings  and  its  harness. 

Tramp,  tramp  go  the  horses'  hoofs,  and  behind  them 
comes  the  rattling  of  the  heavy  wagons.  One  rider  sings, 
another  whistles  and  a  third  is  shouting  at  a  refractory 
horse.  Behind  sit  a  couple  of  men  rolling  cigarettes, 
which  by  the  way  is  more  difficult  than  it  sounds  when  a 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  IV est"  65 

wagon  is  jolting  up  and  down.  This  column  also  has  a 
mounted  escort.  The  train  is  wound  up  by  a  field  kitchen 
with  a  couple  of  store  wagons  on  which  a  few  bundles 
of  firewood  are  also  lying.  Without  ceasing,  this  eternal 
tramp,  tramp,  keeps  dinning  into  our  ears  as  the  columns 
slowly  travel  southward,  a  never-ending  stream  of  war- 
riors, horses,  ammunition  and  provisions. 

IX— "WE  DROVE  THROUGH  A  ROARING  SEA 
OF  LOUD  HURRAHS" 

It  was  still  daylight  when  we  returned  to  our  domicile, 
where  the  Crown  Prince,  just  back  from  his  day's  work, 
was  resting  in  the  doorway.  A  moment  later  I  went  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  town.  At  the  bridges  over  the  Meuse 
I  was  stopped  by  the  sentries,  who  in  authoritative  but 
invariably  polite  tones  asked  to  see  my  Ausweis.  That 
they  found  me  suspicious-looking,  ambling  along  as  I 
did  with  a  sketch-book  under  my  arm,  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at.  Only  one  of  them,  an  honest  Landwehr 
man,  declared  categorically  that  my  pass  was  not  suffi- 
cient. "Oh,"  I  said.  "The  name  of  the  Chief  of  the 
General  Staff  of  the  Field  Army,  General  Moltke,  does 
not  impress  you  ?"  "No,  the  permit  must  be  vised  by  the 
5th  Army,"  he  replied.  A  couple  of  his  comrades  saved 
the  situation  after  reading  the  permit,  and  declared  that 
General  Moltke  was  good  enough  for  them.  ... 

It  had  been  arranged  that  at  about  half-past  six  I 
should  look  out  for  the  Crown  Prince  and  his  staff  as  they 
passed  through  Dun  on  their  way  back  from  Romagne. 
The  time  was  approaching,  and  we  were  on  the  watch. 
The  traffic  had  not  decreased  at  all,  rather  the  reverse. 
For  a  moment  it  looked  like  a  block,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  nice  thing  if  the  Crown  Prince  had  arrived  just 
then.    We  crossed  the  bridge  and  were  outside  the  town. 


66  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  Wesf* 

when  the  aristocratic-looking  cars,  bearing  the  mark, 
General  Oher  Kommando  V.  Armee,  came  tearing  along 
at  full  speed.  Beside  the  chauffeur  of  the  first  one  sat 
the  Crown  Prince  himself  in  a  cloak  with  a  high  collar. 
He  made  a  sign  to  me  to  get  in  and  I  took  my  seat  behind 
him.  Then  he  talked  for  a  while  to  the  officers  of  the 
lines  of  communications,  and  after  that  we  started.  But 
now  the  pace  was  slow,  as  we  happened  to  meet  an  in- 
fantry regiment.  The  men  took  hold  of  their  helmets  by 
the  spike,  raised  them  aloft  and  gave  a  rousing  cheer,  as 
if  they  were  charging  a  French  position.  But  this  time 
the  cheer  was  meant  for  the  Commander  of  the  5th  Army 
and  the  heir  to  the  throne,  and  we  drove  through  a  roar- 
ing sea  of  loud  hurrahs.  Gradually  the  ranks  thinned 
out  and  finally  came  the  stragglers — for  there  are  foot- 
sore men  even  in  the  best  marching  army  of  all — in  small 
groups  of  two  or  three,  but  they  cheered  as  wildly  as 
the  rest.  Last  of  all  a  solitary  man  stood  by  the  side  of 
the  road.  He,  too,  joined  in  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
lungs.  When  the  Crown  Prince  had  reassumed  his  motor 
goggles  and  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  cloak  he  was  not 
easily  recognised,  especially  by  the  men  of  the  transport 
columns  we  met,  who  had  their  horses  to  look  after. 
But  his  Imperial  and  Royal  Highness  turned  half  round 
to  me  and  said  unassumingly  that  nothing  pleased  him 
more  than  to  find  that  he  was  supported  and  understood 
by  the  soldiers.  He  considered  it  the  first  duty  of 
a  prince  to  show  himself  worthy  of  the  confidence  of  his 
whole  people,  and  for  his  own  part  he  could  not  imagine 
a  greater  happiness  than  to  occupy  such  a  position  in  the 
minds  of  the  German  people. 

X— "AT  DINNER  WITH  THE  CROWN  PRINCE" 

We  reached  home  in  due  course  and  sat  down  to  table. 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  IVesf  67 

The  spirits  of  the  company  were  as  cheerful  and  uncon- 
strained as  usual;  though  one  would  have  expected  high- 
sounding  speeches,  toasts  and  cheering. 

Dinner  had  been  going  on  for  some  time  when  Pro- 
fessor Widenmann,  the  body  physician,  came  in  and  took 
his  place.  He  had  been  at  a  hospital,  looking  after  our 
friend.  Baron  von  Maltzahn,  who  had  been  the  victim  of 
a  motor  accident  in  the  course  of  the  day.  The  car,  while 
going  at  a  terrific  pace,  had  skidded  at  a  corner  of  the 
wet  road  and  turned  over.  Von  Maltzahn  lay  under- 
neath and  had  the  whole  weight  of  the  car  on  his  chest. 
He  had  a  couple  of  ribs  broken,  a  broken  leg,  concussion 
of  the  brain  and  general  shock.  His  condition  was  rather 
alarming,  but  the  professor  had  good  hopes  of  his  re- 
covery. 

That  professor  is  a  man  one  would  never  forget.  We 
took  to  each  other,  more  especially  as  he  had  travelled 
all  over  the  world.  He  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  Africa, 
and  had  been  very  near  the  summit  of  Kilima  Njaro 
when  he  was  forced  to  turn  back  by  wind  and  weather. 
We  had  mutual  friends  far  and  near,  and  long  after  the 
others  had  gone  to  their  rooms  we  sat  up  chatting — on 
that  evening,  which  was  my  last  with  the  German  Crown 
Prince,  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia. 

On  the  following  day,  September  24,  we  made  a  very 
early  breakfast,  after  which  the  cars  of  the  Chief  Com- 
mand of  the  Army  again  drove  up  to  the  chateau.  I 
thanked  his  Imperial  and  Royal  Highness  the  Crown 
Prince  with  all  my  heart  for  the  great  hospitality  which 
had  been  shown  me  and  for  all  the  memorable  things  I 
had  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  while  with  his  proud 
army.  After  a  vigourous  shake  of  the  hand  and  a  friendly 
Auf  Wiedersehen!  the  energetic  young  Imperial  Prince 
got  into  his  car  and  went  off  to  his  duty. 


68  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West" 

XI—"I  WAS  ONCE  MORE  AT  THE  EMPEROR'S 
TABLE" 

I  was  once  more  honoured  with  an  invitation  to  dine 
at  the  Emperor's  table  at  one  o'clock.  Those  present, 
apart  from  the  Chamberlain,  included  Herren  von 
Plessen,  von  Gontard  and  von  Busch,  the  latter  being  the 
German  Minister  at  Luxemburg,  also  the  Emperor's 
Field  Chaplain  and  a  couple  of  adjutants.  In  the  fore- 
noon news  had  been  received  of  the  illness  of  Prince 
Oskar.  He  had  contracted  some  sort  of  heart  complaint 
through  over-exertion.  I  expected  therefore  to  find  the 
Emperor  a  bit  depressed,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  it.  He 
walked  in  with  youthful  and  military  bearing,  honoured 
me  once  more  with  a  hearty  handshake  and  bade  me 
welcome  back  from  the  5th  Army.  Thereupon  he  took 
a  '-Iter  out  of  his  pocket  and  asked  me  to  read  it  through 
. .»  .efully.  Whilst  His  Majesty  was  talking  to  his  suite, 
c  read  the  letter.  It  was  addressed  to  the  Emperor  per- 
onally  and  was  written  by  a  sergeant  who  had  been  at 
Prince  Joachim's  side  when  he  was  wounded.  Now  the 
sergeant  wanted  to  tell  his  august  master  how  gallantly 
the  Prince  had  borne  himself  and  what  an  example  he 
had  been  to  the  soldiers.  The  letter  was  simply  and 
ingenuously  written  and  showed  how  deep  and  strong  is 
the  loyalty  which  binds  the  German  Army  to  its  supreme 
Chief  and  Emperor.  The  loyalty  and  unity  between 
Emperor  and  people,  between  Commander  and  Army, 
form  the  firm  and  immovable  rock  on  which  the  German 
Empire  has  been  built  up.  When  the  Emperor  turned 
to  me  again  and  asked  what  I  thought  of  the  letter,  I 
merely  answered :  "It  must  be  a  pleasure  to  your  Maj- 
esty to  receive  such  messages  from  the  rank  and  file." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.    "There  is  nothing  that  gives  me  so 
much  pleasure  as  these  proofs  of  the  faithful  loyalty  of 


"With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West"  69 

my  people  and  the  close  bonds  which  bind  me  to  my 
entire  army.  Such  a  letter  as  this  I  treasure  amongst 
my  most  valued  possessions." 

Then  we  talked  about  Prince  Oskar's  illness,  and  whilst 
on  this  topic,  the  Emperor  said:  "So  you  see,  now 
Hohenzollern  blood,  too,  has  flowed.  I  have  six  sons  and 
a  nephew  with  me  in  the  war  and  among  the  many 
German  Princes  who  are  fighting  at  the  front  several 
have  already  given  their  lives  for  Germany's  sake." 

XII— "SUPPER  WITH  CROWN  PRINCE  OF 
BAVARIA" 

We  were  to  drive  to  Douai,  where  we  were  invited  to 
take  supper  at  8  p.  m.  with  the  .  .  .  Crown  Prince  of 
Bavaria.  The  distance  is  nearly  thirty-four  kilometres 
and  can  easily  be  covered  in  three-quarters  of  an  he  -- 
but  the  numerous  posts  stationed  on  the  road  tool^  v 
much  of  our  time.  It  was  five  minutes  to  eight  whc^ 
we  arrived.  An  adjutant  conducted  us  to  a  drawing- 
room,  and  we  had  not  waited  half  a  minute  when  the 
Crown  Prince  entered. 

He  is  one  of  those  rare  men  whom  all  love  and  admire 
— all  except  the  English,  for  I  think  that  even  the  French 
cannot  help  paying  him  a  meed  of  respect.  In  the 
German  army  he  is  looked  upon  as  a  very  eminent  gen- 
eral— a  born  strategist  and  a  thoroughly  schooled  soldier. 
As  regards  appearance,  manner  and  speech,  he  is  fas- 
cinating and  congenial  in  the  highest  degree,  neither  regal 
nor  humble,  but  without  artifice  and  modest  like  an  ordi- 
nary mortal.  When  one  knows  that  he  has  recently 
experienced  the  greatest  private  sorrow  which  could  be- 
fall him,  one  fancies,  perhaps,  that  one  detects  a  trace 
thereof  in  his  features — an  air  of  sadness — but  otherwise 
he  does  not  betray,  by  a  look  or  a  sigh,  how  deeply 


yo  'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West ' 

he  grieves  over  the  death  of  the  Httle  prince  of  thirteen, 
the  darHng  of  all  Bavaria.  When  the  country  and  the 
empire  are  in  danger,  all  private  sorrows  must  be  put 
aside!  The  Crown  Prince  has  no  time  to  grieve  or  to 
think  of  the  void  and  bereavement  which  he  will  feel  on 
his  victorious  return  to  Munich.  He  lives  for  and  with 
his  army,  and  is  like  a  father  to  each  and  all  of  his 
soldiers.  He  devotes  all  his  power  of  mind,  all  his  phys- 
ical strength,  all  his  time,  to  the  one  great  object  which 
dominates  all  else  in  the  minds  of  the  whole  German 
army. 

Crown  Prince  Rupprecht  walks  in  with  brisk  and  easy 
stride,  stretches  out  his  hands  towards  us  and  gives  us  a 
truly  cordial  welcome.  And  then  he  adds  half-humour- 
ously :  "I  expect  some  other  distinguished  guests  at  my 
table  to-night." 

"Who  can  that  be?"  asks  the  Duke. 

"The  Emperor!"  replies  the  Crown  Prince,  and  clasps 
his  hands  together. 

"The  Emperor?"  we  cry,  for  we  had  no  idea  that  His 
Majesty  was  in  this  part  of  the  country. 

"Yes,  the  Emperor  has  visited  several  units  in  this 
neighbourhood  to-day,  and  has  promised  .  .  .  Hush,  I 
hear  his  car!"  and  with  that  the  Crown  Prince  hurried 
out. 

Meanwhile  the  Officers  of  the  General  Staff  of  the 
Army  came  to  greet  us,  and  presently  the  Emperor's 
suite,  among  whom  I  knew  several,  also  entered.  Before 
I  had  time  to  wonder  where  the  supreme  War-Lord  him- 
self had  gone,  we  were  asked  to  step  into  the  dining- 
room.  The  Emperor  was  already  seated  at  the  table. 
We  all  stepped  up  to  our  chairs,  but  no  one  seated  him- 
self. The  Emperor  sat  with  bowed  head,  looking  very 
grave.  But  suddenly  his  blue  eyes  flashed  up,  and  he 
nodded  kindly  in  all  directions.     When  he  caught  sight 


'With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West"  71 

of  me,  he  extended  his  hand  across  the  table  and  cried 
gaily:'  ''Giiten  Tag,  mein  licber  Sven  Hedin;  es  scheint 
Ihnen  gut  zu  gefallen  in  meiner  Armee,"  a  sentiment 
which  I  confirmed  with  the  greatest  alacrity. 

Perhaps  it  might  amuse  the  reader  to  hear  who  were 
the  ten  people  seated  round  Crown  Prince  Rupprecht's 
table.  Duke  Adolf  Friedrich  of  Mecklenburg  sat  at  the 
Emperor's  right,  and  Prince  Lowenstein  at  his  left. 
Right  opposite  the  Emperor  sat  the  Crown  Prince— the 
host— with  Colonel-General  von  Plessen,  Adjutant-Gen- 
eral, at  his  right  and  myself  at  his  left.  Next  to  me  on 
the  other  side  was  Ueut.-General  von  Marschall,  with 
Colonel  Tappen,  of  the  Crown  Prince's  staff,  on  his  left. 
To  the  left  of  Prince  Lowenstein  sat  General  Falkenhayn, 
Minister  of  War,  and  between  him  and  General  von 
Plessen  the  chief  of  the  Crown  Prince's  staff,  General 
Krafft  von  Dellmensingen.  At  another  table  of  about 
the  same  size,  covers  had  been  laid  for  the  other  gentle- 
men of  the  Emperor's  and  Crown  Prince's  staff  and 
suite. 

XIII— "THE  WAR  LORD  IN  JOLLY  SPIRITS'' 

The  Emperor  was  in  brilliant  spirits.  I  really  do  not 
know  whether  he  can  be  otherwise,  for  whenever  I  have 
had  the  honour  to  meet  him,  he  has  always  been  merry, 
amiable  and  witty.  He  can  certainly  express  at  times  m 
words  of  thunder  his  displeasure  at  some  contemptible 
act  on  the  part  of  the  enemy,  but  he  is  soon  sunshine 
again  and  bursts  into  irresistible  laughter  at  some  whim- 
sical idea.  He  has  a  wonderful  gift  of  instilling  life  into 
a  party  and  keeping  the  conversation  at  high  pitch— as 
he  did  here  for  over  two  and  a  half  hours.  He  told  us 
a  great  deal  of  most  interesting  news,  things  which  had 
happened  in  different  parts  of  the  field  during  the  last 


'J2  "With  the  German  Armies  in  the  West'* 

few  days  and  which,  at  least  to  me  and  to  the  Duke,  were 
news  indeed.  If  one  asks  the  Emperor  any  question 
about  the  conditions  in  more  or  less  remote  countries,  as 
to  which  sparse  or  contradictory  information  has  come 
to  one^s  ears,  he  will,  off-hand,  and  with  a  masterly  mar- 
shalling of  facts,  deliver  a  veritable  lecture  on  its  internal 
and  external  policy,  its  public  sentiments,  its  resources, 
and  its  military  strength.  I  think  I  have  never  met  a 
man  who  can  rival  Emperor  William  in  this  respect. 

He  also  possesses  the  faculty  of  grasping  with  light- 
ning quickness  and  judging  the  opinions  expressed  by 
others.  He  listened  with  the  liveliest  interest  to  Crown 
Prince  Rupprecht  as  the  latter  gave  him  various  details 
about  his  army,  and  to  me  when  I  described  the  bombard- 
ment of  Ostend. 

It  was  past  half-past  ten  when  the  Emperor  laid  down 
his  cigar  and  rose  to  say  good-bye  with  that  vigorous 
hand-shake  which  leaves  its  mark  on  one's  knuckles. 
The  Crown  Prince  alone  accompanied  him  out  into  the 
hall,  which  immediately  adjoined  the  dining-room  and 
from  which  a  few  steps  led  out  into  the  road.  A  soldier 
stood  ready  holding  the  Emperor's  light  greyish-blue 
cloak,  with  dark  fur  collar ;  another  handed  him  the  plain 
Prussian  officer's  field-cap.  After  the  host  and  his  guest 
had  exchanged  a  few  more  words  they  went  out  to  the 
car,  which  drove  off  rapidly  into  the  night. 


"THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  THOUSAND" 

—WITH  KITCHENER'S  ARMY 

IN  FRANCE 

Stories  Straight  from  the  Trenches 

Told  by  Captain  Ian  Hay  Beith,  Famous  Scotch 

Novelist  with  the  Argyll  and  Sutherland 

Highlanders 

Ian  Hay's  collection  of  War  stories  is  pronounced  in  England 
"the  greatest  book  of  the  War."  This  Scotch  novelist  went  to 
the  trenches  to  fight  with  the  Highlanders.  He  sends  "back 
home"  graphic  and  absorbing  stories  of  a  thousand  heroes. 
They  are  full  of  humor,  with  bits  of  superb  character  drawmg 
that  make  the  men  at  the  front  seem  like  old  friends.  His 
division  has  been  badly  cut  up  and  seriously  reduced  in  numbers 
during  the  War;  he  has  risen  from  a  sub-lieutenant _  to  the 
rank  of  Captain,  finally  to  be  transferred  to  the  machine  gun 
division  and  recommended  for  a  military  cross.  The  story  of 
the  first  hundred  thousand  was  originally  contributed  in  the 
form  of  an  anonymous  narrative  to  Blackwood's  Magasine.  In 
a  letter  to  his  publishers,  Capt.  Beith  describes  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  is  writing:  "I  write  this  from  the 
stone  floor  of  an  outhouse,  where  the  pigmeal  is  first  accumu- 
lated and  then  boiled  up  at  a  particularly  smelly  French  farm, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal.  It  is  a  most  interesting  life  and 
if  I  come  through  the  present  unpleasantness  I  shall  have 
enough  copy  to  last  me  twenty  years."  His  pictures  of  the 
Great  Struggle,  uniquely  rich  in  graphic  human  detail,  have 
been  collected  into  a  volume,  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand," 
by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company,  of  Boston  and  New  York, 
which  is  creating  wide  attention.  One  of  the  stories  entitled, 
"The  Front  of  the  Front,"  is  here  retold  by  permission  of  his 
publishers. 

73 


74  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

♦  I— THE  FRONT  OF  THE  FRONT 

We  took  over  these  trenches  a  few  days  ago;  and  as 
the  Germans  are  barely  two  hundred  yards  away,  this 
chapter  seems  to  justify  its  title.  .  .  .  We  find  that 
we  are  committed  to  an  indefinite  period  of  trench  life, 
like  every  one  else. 

Certainly  we  are  starting  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder. 
These  trenches  are  badly  sited,  badly  constructed,  diffi- 
cult of  access  from  the  rear,  and  swarming  with  large, 
fat,  unpleasant  flies,  of  the  bluebottle  variety.  They  go 
to  sleep,  chiefly  upon  the  ceiling  of  one's  dugout,  during 
the  short  hours  of  darkness,  but  for  twenty  hours  out 
of  twenty-four  they  are  very  busy  indeed.  They  divide 
their  attentions  between  stray  carrion — there  is  a  good 
deal  hereabout — and  our  rations.  If  you  sit  still  for  five 
minutes  they  also  settle  upon  you,  like  pins  in  a  pin- 
cushion. Then,  when  face,  hands,  and  knees  can  endure 
no  more,  and  the  inevitable  convulsive  wriggle  occurs, 
they  rise  in  a  vociferous  swarm,  only  to  settle  again  when 
the  victim  becomes  quiescent.  To  these,  high-explosives 
are  a  welcome  relief. 

The  trenches  themselves  are  no  garden  city,  like  those 
at  Armentieres.  They  were  sited  and  dug  in  the  dark, 
not  many  weeks  ago,  to  secure  two  hundred  yards  of 
French  territory  recovered  from  the  Boche  by  bomb  and 
bayonet.  (The  captured  trench  lies  behind  us  now,  and 
serves  as  our  second  line.)  They  are  muddy — you  come 
to  water  at  three  feet — and  at  one  end,  owing  to  their 
concave  formation,  are  open  to  enfilade.  The  parapet 
in  many  places  is  too  low.  If  you  make  it  higher  with 
sandbags  you  offer  the  enemy  a  comfortable  target:  if 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
in  original  sources. 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  75 

you  deepen  the  trench  you  turn  it  into  a  running  stream. 
Therefore  long-legged  subalterns  crawl  painfully  past 
these  danger-spots  on  all-fours,  envying  Little  Tich. 

II— STORY  OF  ZACCHAEUS:  "HE  LIVES  UP  A 
TREE" 

Then  there  is  Zacchseus.  We  call  him  by  this  name 
because  he  lives  up  a  tree.  There  is  a  row  of  pollarded 
willows  standing  parallel  to  our  front,  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  away.  Up,  or  in,  one  of  these  lives  Zacchseus.  We 
have  never  seen  him,  but  we  know  he  is  there;  because 
if  you  look  over  the  top  of  the  parapet  he  shoots  you 
through  the  head.  We  do  not  even  know  which  of  the 
trees  he  lives  in.  There  are  nine  of  them,  and  every 
morning  we  comb  them  out,  one  by  one,  with  a  machine- 
gun.  But  all  in  vain.  Zacchaeus  merely  crawls  away  into 
the  standing  corn  behind  his  trees,  and  waits  till  we  have 
finished.  Then  he  comes  back  and  tries  to  shoot  the 
machine-gun  officer.  He  has  not  succeeded  yet,  but  he 
sticks  to  his  task  with  gentle  persistence.  He  is  evidently 
of  a  persevering  rather  than  vindictive  disposition. 

Then  there  is  Unter  den  Linden.  This  celebrated 
thoroughfare  is  an  old  communication-trench.  It  runs, 
half-ruined,  from  the  old  German  trench  in  our  rear, 
right  through  our  own  front  line,  to  the  present  German 
trenches.  It  constitutes  such  a  bogey  as  the  Channel 
Tunnel  scheme  once  was :  each  side  sits  jealously  at  its 
own  end,  anticipating  hostile  enterprises  from  the  other. 
It  is  also  the  residence  of  "Minnie."  But  we  will  return 
to  Minnie  later. 

The  artillery  of  both  sides,  too,  contributes  its  mite, 
There  is  a  dull  roar  far  in  the  rear  of  the  German 
"trenches,  followed  bv  a  whirring-  snueak  overhead.  Then 
comes  an  earth-shaking  crash  a  mile  behind  us.    We  whip 


76  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand'* 

round,  and  there,  in  the  failing  evening  light,  against  the 
sunset,  there  springs  up  the  silhouette  of  a  mighty  tree 
in  full  foliage.  Presently  the  silhouette  disperses,  drifts 
away,  and 

"The  coals  is  hame,  right  enough!"  comments  Private 
Tosh. 

Instantly  our  guns  reply,  and  we  become  the  humble 
spectators  of  an  artillery  duel.  Of  course,  if  the  enemy 
gets  tired  of  "searching"  the  countryside  for  our  guns  and 
takes  to  "searching"  our  trenches  instead,  we  lose  all  in- 
terest in  the  proceedings,  and  retire  to  our  dugouts,  ho- 
ping that  no  direct  hits  will  come  our  way. 

But  guns  are  notoriously  erratic  in  their  time-tables, 
and  fickle  in  their  attentions.  It  is  upon  Zacchseus  and 
Unter  den  Linden — including  Minnie — that  we  mainly 
rely  for  excitement. 

Ill— STORY  OF  AYLING  OF  THE  MACHINE 
GUNNERS 

As  already  recorded,  we  took  over  these  trenches  a 
few  days  ago,  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  In  the 
ordinary  course  of  events,  relieving  parties  are  usually 
able  to  march  up  under  cover  of  darkness  to  the  reserve 
trench,  half  a  mile  in  rear  of  the  firing  line,  and  so  pro- 
ceed to  their  appointed  place.  But  on  this  occasion  the 
German  artillery  happened  to  be  "distributing  coal" 
among  the  billets  behind.  This  made  it  necessary  to 
approach  our  new  home  by  tortuous  ways,  and  to  take 
to  subterranean  courses  at  a  very  early  stage  of  the 
journey.  For  more  than  two  hours  we  toiled  along  a 
trench  just  wide  enough  to  permit  a  man  to  wear  his 
equipment,  sometimes  bent  double  to  avoid  the  bullets  of 
snipers,  sometimes  knee-deep  in  glutinous  mud. 

Ayling,  leading  a  machine-gun  section  who  were  bur- 


*'The  First  Hundred  Thousand''  77 

dened  with  their  weapons  and  seven  thousand  rounds  of 
ammunition,  mopped  his  steaming  brow  and  inquired 
of  his  guide  how  much  farther  there  was  to  go. 

"Abart  two  miles,  sir,"  repHed  the  youth  with  gloomy 
satisfaction.  He  was  a  private  of  the  Cockney  regiment 
whom  we  were  relieving;  and  after  the  manner  of  his 
kind,  would  infinitely  have  preferred  to  conduct  us  down 
half  a  mile  of  a  shell-swept  road,  leading  straight  to  the 
heart  of  things,  than  waste  time  upon  an  uninteresting  but 
safe  detour. 

At  this  Ayling's  Number  One,  who  was  carry mg  a 
machine-gun  tripod  weighing  forty-eight  pounds,  said 
something-— something  distressingly  audible— and  groaned 

deeply.  , 

"If  we'd  come  the  way  I  wanted,"  contmued  the  guide, 
much  pleased  with  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  his  audi- 
ence, "we'd  a'  been  there  by  now.    But  the  Adjutant,  'e 

savs  to  me " 

'"If  we  had  come  the  way  you  wanted,  mterrupted 
Ayling  brutally,  "we  should  probably  have  been  in  King- 
dom Come  bv  now.  Hurry  up!"  Ayling,  in  common 
with  the  rest  of  those  present,  was  not  in  the  best  of  tem- 
pers, and  the  loquacity  of  the  guide  had  been  jarring  upon 
him  foi  some  time. 

The  Cockney  private,  with  the  air  of  a  deeply-wronged 
man,  sulkily  led  on,  followed  by  the  dolorous  procession. 
Anothei  ten  minutes'  labored  progress  brought  them  to 
a  place  where  several  ways  met.  ^    ^^ 

"This  is  the  beginning  of  the  reserve  trenches,  sir,^^ 
announced  the  guide.     "If  we'd  come  the  way  I " 

"Lead  on'"  said  Ayling,  and  his  perspiring  followers 
murmured  threatening  applause. 

The  guide,  now  in  his  own  territory,  selected  the  mud- 
diest opening  and  plunged  down  it.  For  two  hundred 
yards  or  so  he  continued  serenely  upon  his  way,  with 


78  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand'' 

the  air  of  one  exhibiting  the  metropoHs  to  a  party  of 
country  cousins.  He  passed  numerous  turnings.  Then^ 
once  or  twice,  he  paused  irresolutely ;  then  moved  on. 
Finally  he  halted,  and  proceeded  to  climb  out  of  the 
trench. 

"What  are  you  doing  ?"  demanded  Ayling  suspiciously. 

"We  got  to  cut  across  the  open  'ere,  sir,"  said  the 
youth  glibly.  "Trench  don't  go  no  farther.  Keep  as 
low  as  you  can." 

With  resigned  grunts  the  weary  pilgrims  hoisted  them- 
selves and  their  numerous  burdens  out  of  their  slimy 
thoroughfare,  and  followed  their  conductor  through  the 
long  grass  in  single  file,  feeling  painfully  conspicuous 
against  the  whitening  sky.  Presently  they  discovered^ 
and  descended  into,  another  trench — all  but  the  man  with 
the  tripod,  who  descended  into  it  before  he  discovered  it 
— and  proceeded  upon  their  dolorous  way.  Once  more 
the  guide,  who  had  been  refreshingly  but  ominously  si- 
lent for  some  time,  paused  irresolutely. 

"Look  here,  my  man,"  said  Ayling,  "do  you,  or  do  you 
not,  know  where  you  are  ?" 

The  paragon  replied  hesitatingly : — 

"Well,  sir,  if  we'd  come  by  the  way  I " 

Ayling  took  a  deep  breath,  and  though  conscious  of 
the  presence  of  formidable  competitors,  was  about  ta 
make  the  best  of  an  officer's  vocabulary,  when  a  kilted 
figure  loomed  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Hallo  !    Who  are  you  ?"  inquired  Ayling. 

"This  iss  the  Camerons'  trenches,  sirr,"  replied  a  po- 
lite West  Highland  voice.  "What  trenches  wass  you 
seeking  ?" 

Ayeling  told  him. 

"They  are  behind  you,  sirr." 

"I  was  just  goin'  to  say,  sir,"  chanted  the  guide,  mak- 
ing one  last  effort  to  redeem  his  prestige,  "as  'ow " 


''The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  79 

"Party,"  commanded  Ayling,  "about  turn !" 

Having  received  details  of  the  route  from  the  friendly 
Cameron,  he  scrambled  out  of  the  trench  and  crawled 
along  to  what  was  now  the  head  of  the  procession.  A 
plaintive  voice  followed  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  where  shall  I  go  now  ?" 

Ayling  answered  the  question  explicitly,  and  moved 
of?,  feeling  much  better.  The  late  conductor  of  the  party 
trailed  disconsolately  in  the  rear. 

"I  should  like  to  know  wot  I'm  'ere  for,"  he  murmured 
indignantly. 

He  got  his  answer,  like  a  lightning-flash. 

"For  tae  carry  this/'  said  the  man  with  the  tripod, 
turning  round.     "Here,  caatch  l" 

IV— A  DAY'S  WORK  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

The  day's  work  in  trenches  begins  about  nine  o'clock 
the  night  before.    Darkness  having  fallen,  various  parties 
steal  out  into  the  No-Man's-Land  beyond  the  parapet. 
There  are  numerous  things  to  be  done.    The  barbed  wire 
has  been  broken  up  by  shrapnel,  and  must  be  repaired. 
The  whole  position  in  front  of  the  wire  must  be  patrolled, 
to   prevent   the   enemy    from  creeping   forward   in   the 
dark     The  corn  has  grown  to  an  uncomfortable  height 
in  places,  so  a  fatigue  party  is  told  off  to  cut  it— surely 
the  strangest  species  of  harvesting  that  the  annals  of 
agriculture  can  record.     On  the  left  front  the  muffled 
clinking  of  picks  and  shovels  announces  that  a  "sap"  is 
in  course  of  construction:  those  incorrigible  night-birds, 
the  Royal  Engineers,  are  making  it  for  the  machine-gun- 
ners, who  in  the  fullness  of  time  will  convey  their  voluble 
weapon  to  its  forward  extremity,  and  "loose  oflF  a  belt  or 
two"  in  the  direction  of  a  rather  dangerous  hollow  mid- 
way between  the  trenches,  from  which  of  late  mysterious 


8o  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

sounds  of  digging  and  guttural  talking  have  been  de- 
tected by  the  officer  who  lies  in  the  listening-post,  in 
front  of  our  barbed-wire  entanglement,  drawing  secrets 
from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  by  means  of  a  micro- 
phone. 

Behind  the  firing  trench  even  greater  activity  pre- 
vails. Damage  done  to  the  parapet  by  shell  fire  is  being 
repaired.  Positions  and  emplacements  are  being  con- 
stantly improved,  communication  trenches  widened  or 
made  more  secure.  Down  these  trenches  fatigue  parties 
are  filing,  to  draw  rations  and  water  and  ammunition 
from  the  limbered  wagons  which  are  waiting  in  the 
shadow  of  a  wood,  perhaps  a  mile  back.  It  is  at  this 
hour,  too,  that  the  wounded,  who  have  been  lying  pathet- 
ically cheerful  and  patient  in  the  dressing-station  in  the 
reserve  trench,  are  smuggled  to  the  Field  Ambulance — 
probably  to  find  themselves  safe  in  a  London  hospital 
within  twenty-four  hours.  Lastly,  under  the  kindly 
cloak  of  night,  we  bury  our  dead. 

Meanwhile,  within  various  stifling  dug-outs,  in  the 
firing  trench  or  support  trench,  overheated  company  com- 
manders are  dictating  reports  or  filling  in  returns.  (Even 
now  the  Round  Game  Department  is  not  entirely  shaken 
off.)  There  is  the  casualty  return,  and  a  report  on  the 
doings  of  the  enemy,  and  another  report  of  one's  own 
doings,  and  a  report  on  the  direction  of  the  wind,  and 
so  on.  Then  there  are  various  indents  to  fill  up — scrawled 
on  a  wobbly  writing-block  with  a  blunt  indelible  pencil 
by  the  light  of  a  guttering  candle — for  ammunition,  and 
sandbags,  and  revetting  material. 

All  this  literature  has  to  be  sent  to  Battalion  Head- 
quarters by  one  a.m.,  either  by  orderly  or  telephone. 
There  it  is  collated  and  condensed,  and  forwarded  to  the 
Brigade,  which  submits  it  to  the  same  process  and  sends 
it  on,  to  be  served  up  piping  hot  and  easily  digestible  at 


*'The  First  Hundred  Thousand'*  8i 

the  breakfast-table  of  the  Division,  five  miles  away,  at 
eight  o  clock. 

V— SOLDIERS'  NIGHT  AT  THE  FRONT 

You  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  all  this  night- 
work  is  performed  in  gross  darkness.  On  the  contrary. 
There  is  abundance  of  illumination ;  and  by  a  pretty 
thought,  each  side  illuminates  the  other.  We  perform 
our  nocturnal  tasks,  in  front  of  and  behind  the  firing 
trench,  amid  a  perfect  hail  of  star-shells  and  magnesium 
lights,  topped  up  at  times  by  a  searchlight — all  supplied 
by  our  obliging  friend  the  Hun.  We,  on  our  part,  do 
our  best  to  return  these  graceful  compliments. 

The  curious  and  uncanny  part  of  it  all  is  that  there 
is  no  firing.  During  these  brief  hours  there  exists  an 
informal  truce,  founded  on  the  principle  of  live  and  let 
live.  It  would  be  an  easy  business  to  wipe  out  that 
working-party,  over  there  by  the  barbed  wire,  with  a 
machine-gun.  It  would  be  child's  play  to  shell  the  road 
behind  the  enemy's  trenches,  crowded  as  it  must  be  with 
ration-wagons  and  water-carts,  into  a  blood-stained  wil- 
derness. But  so  long  as  each  side  confines  itself  to  purely 
defensive  and  recuperative  work,  there  is  little  or  no  in- 
terference. That  slave  of  duty,  Zacchaeus,  keeps  on  peg- 
ging away;  and  occasionally,  if  a  hostile  patrol  shows  it- 
self too  boldly,  there  is  a  little  exuberance  from  a  ma- 
chine-gun ;  but  on  the  whole  there  is  silence.  After  all, 
if  you  prevent  your  enemy  from  drawing  his  rations,  his 
remedy  is  simple:  he  will  prevent  you  from  drawing 
yourc.  Then  both  parties  will  have  to  fight  on  empty 
stomachs,  and  neither  of  them,  tacitally,  will  be  a  penny 
the  better.  So,  unless  some  elaborate  scheme  of  attack  is 
brewing,  the  early  hours  of  the  night  are  comoaratively 
peaceful.     But  what  is  that  sudden  disturbance  in  the 


82  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand'' 

front-line  trench  ?  A  British  rifle  rings  out,  then  another, 
and  another,  until  there  is  an  agitated  fusilade  from  end 
to  end  of  the  section.  Instantly  the  sleepless  host  across 
the  way  replies,  and  for  three  minutes  or  so  a  hurricane 
rages.  The  working  parties  out  in  front  lie  flat  on  their 
faces,  cursing  patiently.  Suddenly  the  storm  dies  away, 
and  perfect  silence  reigns  once  more.  It  was  a  false 
alarm.  Some  watchman,  deceived  by  the  whispers  of  the 
night  breeze,  or  merely  a  prey  to  nerves,  has  discerned  a 
phantom  army  approaching  through  the  gloom,  and  has 
opened  fire  thereon.  This  often  occurs  when  troops  are 
new  to  trench-work. 

It  is  during  these  hours,  too,  that  regiments  relieve 
one  another  in  the  trenches.  The  outgoing  regiment  can- 
not leave  its  post  until  the  incoming  regiment  has  "taken 
over."  Consequently  you  have,  for  a  brief  space,  two 
thousand  troops  packed  into  a  trench  calculated  to  hold 
one  thousand.  Then  it  is  that  strong  men  swear  them- 
selves faint,  and  the  Rugby  football  player  has  reason  to 
be  thankful  for  his  previous  training  in  the  art  of  "getting 
through  the  scrum."  How^ever  perfect  your  organiza- 
tion may  be,  congestion  is  bound  to  occur  here  and  there  ; 
and  it  is  no  little  consolation  to  us  to  feel,  as  we  surge 
and  sway  in  the  darkness,  that  over  there  in  the  German 
lines  a  Saxon  and  a  Prussian  private,  irretrievably 
jammed  together  in  a  narrow  communication  trench,  are 
consigning  one  another  to  perdition  in  just  the  same  husky 
whisper  as  that  employed  by  Private  Mucklewame  and  his 
"opposite  number"  in  the  regiment  which  has  come  to 
relieve  him. 

These  "reliefs"  take  place  every  four  or  five  nights. 
There  was  a  time,  not  so  long  ago,  when  a  regiment  was 
relieved,  not  when  it  was  weary,  but  when  another  regi- 
ment could  be  found  to  replace  it.  Our  own  first  bat- 
talion once  remained  in  the  trenches,  unrelieved  and  only 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  83 

securing  its  supplies  with  difficulty,  for  five  weeks  and 
three  days.  During  all  that  time  they  were  subject  to 
most  pressing  attentions  on  the  part  o  fthe  Boches,  but 
they  never  lost  a  yard  of  trench.  They  received  word 
from  Headquarters  that  to  detach  another  regiment  for 
their  relief  would  seriously  weaken  other  and  most  im- 
portant dispositions.  The  Commander-in-Chief  would 
therefore  be  greatly  obliged  if  they  could  hold  on.  So 
they  held  on. 

At  last  they  came  out,  and  staggered  back  to  billets. 
Their  old  quarters,  naturally,  had  long  been  appropriated 
by  other  troops,  and  the  officers  had  some  difficulty  in 
recovering  their  kits.  ^^ 

*T  don't  mind  being  kept  in  trenches  for  several  weeks, 
remarked  their  commander  to  the  staff  officer  who  re- 
ceived him  when  he  reported,  "and  I  can  put  up  with 
losing  my  sleeping-bag;  but  I  do  object  to  having  my 
last  box  of  cigars  looted  by  the  blackguards  who  took 
over  our  billets!" 

The  staff  officer  expressed  sympathy,  and  the  subject 
dropped.  But  not  many  days  later,  when  the  battalion 
were  still  resting,  their  commander  was  roused  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  from  the  profound  slumber  which 
only  the  experience  of  many  nights  of  anxious  vigil  can 
induce,  by  the  ominous  message : — 

"An  orderly  to  see  you,  from  General  Headquarters, 

sir !" 

The  colonel  rolled  stoically  out  of  bed,  and  commanded 
that  the  orderly  should  be  brought  before  him. 

The  man  entered,  carrying,  not  a  despatch,  but  a  pack- 
age, which  he  proffered  with  a  salute.  ^ 

"With  the  Commander-in-Chief's  compliments,  sir! 
he  announced. 

The  package  was  a  box  of  cigars! 

But  that  was  before  the  days  of  "K(i)." 


84  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

But  the  night  is  wearing  on.  It  is  half-past  one — 
time  to  knock  off  work.  Tired  men,  returning  from  ra- 
tion-drawing or  sap-digging,  throw  themselves  down  and 
fall  dead  asleep  in  a  moment.  Only  the  sentries,  with 
their  elbows  on  the  parapet,  maintain  their  sleepless 
watch.  From  behind  the  enemy's  lines  comes  a  deep 
boom — then  another.  The  big  guns  are  waking  up  again, 
and  have  decided  to  commence  their  day's  work  by  speed- 
ing our  empty  ration-wagons  upon  their  homeward  way. 
Let  them!  So  long  as  they  refrain  from  practising  di- 
rect hits  on  our  front-line  parapet,  and  disturbing  our 
brief  and  hardly-earned  repose,  they  may  fire  where  they 
please.    The  ration  train  is  well  able  to  look  after  itself. 

"A  whiff  o'  shrapnel  will  dae  nae  harrm  to  thae  straw- 
berry-jam pinchers !"  observes  Private  Tosh  bitterly,  roll- 
ing into  his  dugout.  By  this  opprobrious  term  he  desig- 
nates that  distinguished  body  of  men,  the  Army  Service 
Corps.  A  prolonged  diet  of  plum-and-apple  jam  has 
implanted  in  the  breasts  of  the  men  in  the  trenches  cer- 
tain dark  and  unworthy  suspicions  concerning  the  entire 
altruism  of  those  responsible  for  the  distribution  of  the 
Army's  rations. 

VI— DAYBREAK— "STAND  TO   ARMS!" 

It  is  close  on  daybreak,  and  the  customary  whispered 
order  runs  down  the  stertorous  trench: — 
"Stand  to  arms!" 

Straightway  the  parapets  are  lined  with  armed  men ; 
the  waterproof  sheets  which  have  been  protecting  the 
machine-guns  from  the  dews  of  night  are  cast  off;  and 
we  stand  straining  our  eyes  into  the  whitening  dark- 
ness. 

This  is  the  favorite  hour  for  attack.  At  any  moment 
the  guns  may  open  fire  upon  our  parapet,  or  a  solid  wall 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  85 

of  gray-clad  figures  rise  from  that  strip  of  corn-land  less 
than  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  descend  upon  us.  Well, 
we  are  ready  for  them.  Just  by  way  of  signalizing  the 
fact,  there  goes  out  a  ragged  volley  of  rifle  fire,  and  a 
machine-gun  rips  off  half  a  dozen  bursts  into  the  stand- 
ing corn.  But  apparently  there  is  nothing  doing  this 
morning.  The  day  grows  brighter,  but  there  is  no  move- 
ment upon  the  part  of  Brother  Boche. 

But — what  is  that  light  haze  hanging  over  the  enemy's 
trenches?  It  is  slight,  almost  impalpable,  but  it  appears 
to  be  drifting  towards  us.    Can  it  be ? 

Next  moment  every  man  is  hurriedly  pulling  his  gas 
helmet  over  his  head,  while  Lieutenant  Waddell  beats  a 
frenzied  tocsin  upon  the  instrument  provided  for  the 
purpose — to  wit,  an  empty  eighteen-pounder  shell,  which, 
suspended  from  a  bayonet  stuck  into  the  parados  (or 
back  wall)  of  the  trench,  makes  a  most  efficient  alarm- 
gong.  The  sound  is  repeated  all  along  the  trench,  and  in 
two  minutes  every  man  is  in  his  place,  cowled  like  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Holy  Inquisition,  glaring  through  an  eye-piece 
of  mica,  and  firing  madly  into  the  approaching  wall  of 
vapour. 

But  the  wall  approaches  very  slowly — in  fact,  it  almost 
stands  still— and  finally,  as  the  rising  sun  disentangles 
itself  from  a  pink  horizon  and  climbs  into  the  sky,  it 
begins  to  disappear.  In  half  an  hour  nothing  is  left,  and 
we  take  off  our  helmets,  sniffing  the  morning  air  dubi- 
ously. But  all  we  smell  is  the  old  mixture — corpses  and 
chloride  of  lime. 

The  incident,  however,  was  duly  recorded  by  Major 
Kemp  in  his  report  of  the  day's  events,  as  follows : — 

4.7  A.M. — Gas  alarm,  false.  Due  either  to  morning 
mist,  or  the  fact  that  enemy  found  breeze  insufficient, 
and  discontinued  their  attempt. 

"Still,  I'm  not  sure,"  he  continued,  slapping  his  bald 


86  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand'' 

head  with  a  bandanna  handkerchief,  "that  a  whiff  of  chlo- 
rine or  bromine  wouldn't  do  these  trenches  a  consider- 
able amount  of  good.  It  would  tone  down  some  of  the 
deceased  a  bit,  and  wipe  out  these  infernal  flies.  Wad- 
dell,  if  I  give  you  a  shilling,  will  you  take  it  over  to  the 
German  trenches  and  ask  them  to  drop  it  into  the  meter?" 

"I  do  not  think,  sir,"  replied  the  literal  Waddell,  "that 
an  English  shilling  would  fit  a  German  meter.  Probably 
a  mark  would  be  required,  and  I  have  only  a  franc.  Be- 
sides, sir,  do  you  think  that " 

"Surgical  operation  at  seven-thirty,  sharp!"  intimated 
the  major  to  the  medical  officer,  who  entered  the  dugout 
at  that  moment.  "For  our  friend  here" — indicating  the 
bewildered  Waddell.  "Sydney  Smith's  prescription! 
Now,  what  about  breakfast?" 

VII— NINE  O'CLOCK— "A  LITTLE  MORNING 
HATE" 

About  nine  o'clock  the  enemy  indulges  in  what  is 
usually  described,  most  disrespectfully,  as  "a  little  morn- 
ing hate" — in  other  words,  a  bombardment.  Beginning 
with  a  hors  d'oeuvre  of  shrapnel  along  the  reserve  trench 
— much  to  the  discomfort  of  Headquarters,  who  are  shav- 
ing— he  proceeds  to  "search"  a  tract  of  woodland  in  our 
immediate  rear,  his  quarry  being  a  battery  of  motor  ma- 
chine-guns, which  has  wisely  decamped  some  hours  pre- 
viously. Then,  after  scientifically  "traversing"  our  sec- 
ond line,  which  has  rashly  advertised  its  position  and 
range  by  cooking  its  breakfast  over  a  smoky  fire,  he 
brings  the  display  to  a  superfluous  conclusion  by  drop- 
ping six  "Black  Marias"  into  the  deserted  ruins  of  a  vil- 
lage not  far  behind  us.  After  that  comes  silence;  and 
we  are  able,  in  our  hot,  baking  trenches,  assisted  by 
clouds  of  bluebottles,  to  get  on  with  the  day's  work. 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  87 

This  consists  almost  entirely  in  digging.  As  already 
stated,  these  are  bad  trenches.  The  parapet  is  none  too 
strong — at  one  point  it  has  been  knocked  down  for  three 
days  running — the  communication  trenches  are  few  and 
narrow,  and  there  are  not  nearly  enough  dugouts.  Yes- 
terday three  men  were  wounded;  and  owing  to  the  im- 
possibility of  carrying  a  stretcher  along  certain  parts  of 
the  trench,  they  had  to  be  conveyed  to  the  rear  in  their 
ground-sheets — bumped  against  projections,  bent  round 
sharp  corners,  and  sometimes  lifted,  perforce,  bodily  into 
view  of  the  enemy.  So  every  man  toils  with  a  will,  know- 
ing full  well  that  in  a  few  hours'  time  he  may  prove  to 
have  been  his  own  benefactor.  Only  the  sentries  remain 
at  the  parapets.  They  no  longer  expose  themselves,  as 
at  night,  but  take  advantage  of  the  laws  of  optical  re- 
flection, as  exemplified  by  the  trench  periscope.  (This, 
in  spite  of  its  grand  title,  is  nothing  but  a  tiny  mirror 
'clipped  on  to  a  bayonet.) 

At  half-past  twelve  comes  dinner — bully-beef,  with  bis- 
cuit and  jam — after  which  each  tired  man,  coiling  himself 
up  in  the  trench,  or  crawling  underground,  according  to 
the  accommodation  at  his  disposal,  drops  off  into  instant 
and  heavy  slumber.  The  hours  from  two  till  five  in  the 
afternoon  are  usually  the  most  uneventful  of  the  twenty- 
four,  and  are  therefore  devoted  to  hardly-earned  repose. 

VIII—STORY  OF  AN  AFTERNOON  WITH 
CAPTAIN  BLAIKIE 

But  there  is  to  be  little  peace  this  afternoon.  About 
half-past  three,  Bobby  Little,  immersed  in  pleasant  dreams 

dreams  of  cool  shades  and  dainty  companionship — is 

brought  suddenly  to  the  surface  of  things  by— 

"Whoo-00-oo-oo-UMP !" 

— followed  by  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  roof  of  his  dug- 


88  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

out.     Earth  and  small  stones  descend  in  a  shower  upon 

"Dirty   dogs!"   he   comments,   looking  at  his   watch 
Ihen  he  puts  his  head  out  of  the  dugout. 

"Lie  close,  you  men !"  he  cries.    "There's  more  of  this 
commg.    Any  casualties  ?" 

The  answer  to  the  question  is  obscured  by  another 
burst  of  shrapnel,  which  explodes  a  few  yards  short  of 
a  parapet,  and  showers  bullets  and  fragments  of  shell 
mto  the  trench.  A  third  and  a  fourth  follow.  Then 
comes  a  pause.  A  message  is  passed  down  for  the 
stretcher-bearers.  Things  are  growing  serious.  Five 
mmutes  later  Bobby,  having  despatched  his  wounded  to 
the  dressmg-station,  proceeds  with  all  haste  to  Captain 
Blaikie  s  dugout. 

"How  many,  Bobby?" 

"Six  wounded.    Two  of  them  won't  last  as  far  as  the 
rear,  I'm  afraid,  sir." 

Captain  Blaikie  looks  grave. 

"Better  ring  up  the  Gunners,  I  think.    Where  are  the 
shells  coming  from  ?" 

"That  wood  on  our  left  front,  I  think." 
"That's  P  27.    Telephone  orderly,  there  ?" 
A  figure  appears  in  the  doorway. 
]'Yes,  sirr." 

"Ring  up  Major  Cavanagh,  and  say  that  H  21  is  bein^ 
shelled  from  P  27.    Retaliate !" 
"Verra  good,  sirr." 

The  telephone  orderly  disappears,  to  return  in  five 
mmutes. 

"Major  Cavanagh's  compliments,  sirr,  and  he  is  com- 
mg up  himself  for  tae  observe  from  the  firing  trench  " 

"Good  ^gg !"  observes  Captain  Blaikie.  "Now  we  shall 
see  some  shooting,  Bobby !" 

Presently  the  Gunner  major  arrives,  accompanied  by 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  89 

an  orderly,  who  pays  out  wire  as  he  goes.  The  major  ad- 
justs his  periscope,  while  the  orderly  thrusts  a  metal  peg 
into  the  ground  and  fits  a  telephone  receiver  to  his  head. 

"Number  one  gun!"  chants  the  major,  peering  into 
his  periscope ;  "three-five-one-nothing — lyddite — fourth 
charge !" 

These  mystic  observations  are  repeated  into  the  tele- 
phone by  the  Cockney  orderly,  in  a  confidential  under- 
tone. 

"Report  when  ready !"  continues  the  major. 

"Report  when  ready!"  echoes  the  orderly.  Then — 
"Number  one  gun  ready,  sir !" 

"Fire !" 

"Fire !"    Then,  politely — "Number  one  has  fired,  sir." 

The  major  stiffens  to  his  periscope,  and  Bobby  Little, 
deeply  interested,  wonders  what  has  become  of  the  report 
of  the  gun.  He  forgets  that  sound  does  not  travel  much 
faster  than  a  thousand  feet  a  second,  and  that  the  guns 
are  a  mile  and  a  half  back.  Presently,  however,  there  is 
a  distant  boom.  Almost  simultaneously  the  lyddite  shell 
passes  overhead  with  a  scream.  Bobby,  having  no  peri- 
scope, cannot  see  the  actual  result  of  the  shot,  though  he 
tempts  Providence  (and  Zacchaeus)  by  peering  over  the 
top  of  the  parapet. 

"Number  one,  two-nothing  minutes  more  right,"  com- 
mands the  major.    "Same  range  and  charge." 

Once  more  the  orderly  goes  through  his  ritual,  and 
presently  another  shell  screams  overhead. 

Again  the  major  observes  the  result. 

"Repeat !"  he  says.    "Nothing-five  seconds  more  right." 

This  time  he  is  satisfied. 

"Parallel  lines  on  number  one,"  he  commands  crisply. 
"One  round  battery  fire — twenty  seconds!" 

For  the  last  time  the  order  is  passed  down  the  wire, 
and  the  major  hands  his  periscope  to  the  ever-grateful 


90  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

Bobby,  who  has  hardly  got  his  eyes  to  the  glass  when  the 
round  of  battery  fire  commences.  One — two — three — 
four — the  avenging  shells  go  shrieking  on  their  way,  at 
intervals  of  twenty  seconds.  There  are  four  muffled 
thuds,  and  four  great  columns  of  earth  and  debris  spring 
up  before  the  wood.  Answer  comes  there  none.  The  of- 
fending battery  has  prudently  effaced  itself. 

"Cease  fire !"  says  the  major,  "and  register!"  Then  he 
turns  to  Captain  Blaikie. 

"That'll  settle  them  for  a  bit,"  he  observes.  "By  the 
way,  had  any  more  trouble  with  Minnie?" 

"We  had  Hades  from  her  yesterday,"  replies  Blaikie, 
in  answer  to  this  extremely  personal  question.  "She 
started  at  a  quarter-past  five  in  the  morning,  and  went  on 
till  about  ten." 

IX— STORY   OF    "MINNIE— THE    MOST 
UNPLEASANT  OF  HER  SEX" 

(Perhaps,  at  this  point,  it  would  be  as  well  to  intro- 
duce Minnie  a  little  more  formally.  She  is  the  most 
unpleasant  of  her  sex,  and  her  full  name  is  Minenwerfer, 
or  German  trench-mortar.  She  resides,  spasmodically,  in 
Unter  den  Linden.  Her  extreme  range  is  about  two 
hundred  yards,  so  she  confines  her  attentions  to  front- 
line trenches.  Her  modus  operandi  is  to  discharge  a 
large  cylindrical  bomb  into  the  air.  The  bomb,  which  is 
about  fifteen  inches  long  and  some  eight  inches  in  diam- 
eter, describes  a  leisurely  parabola,  performing  grotesque 
somersaults  on  the  way,  and  finally  falls  with  a  soft  thud 
into  the  trench  or  against  the  parapet.  There,  after  an 
interval  of  ten  seconds,  Minnie's  offspring  explodes ;  and 
as  she  contains  about  thirty  pounds  of  dynamite,  no  dug- 
out or  parapet  can  stand  against  her.) 

"Did  she  do  much  damage?"  inquires  the  Gunner. 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  Qr 

"Killed  two  men  and  buried  another.  They  were  in  a. 
dugout." 

The  Gunner  shakes  his  head. 

"No  good  taking  cover  against  Minnie,"  he  says.  "The 
only  way  is  to  come  out  into  the  open  trench,  and  dodge 
her." 

"So  we  found,"  replies  Blaikie.  "But  they  pulled  our 
legs  badly  the  first  time.  They  started  off  with  three 
*whizz-bangs'  " — a  whizz-bang  is  a  particularly  offensive 
form  of  shell  which  bursts  two  or  three  times  over,  like 
a  Chinese  cracker — "so  we  all  took  cover  and  lay  low. 
The  consequence  was  that  Minnie  was  able  to  send  her 
little  contribution  along  unobserved.  The  filthy  thing  fell 
short  of  the  trench,  and  exploded  just  as  we  were  all 
getting  up  again.  It  smashed  up  three  or  four  yards 
of  parapet,  and  scuppered  the  three  poor  chaps  I  men- 
tioned." 

"Have  you  located  her?" 

"Yes.  Just  behind  that  stunted  willow,  on  our  left 
front.  I  fancy  they  bring  her  along  there  to  do  her  bit. 
and  then  trot  her  back  to  billets,  our  of  harm's  way.  She 
is  their  two  o'clock  turn — two  a.m.  and  two  p.m." 

"Two  o'clock  turn — h'm. !"  says  the  Gunner  major  medi- 
tatively. "What  about  our  chipping  in  with  a  one-fifty- 
five  turn — half  a  dozen  H  E  shells  into  Minnie's  dressing- 
room — eh?    I  must  think  this  over." 

"Do!"  said  Blaikie  cordially.  "Minnie  is  WilHe's 
Worst  Werfer,  and  the  sooner  she  is  put  out  of  action  the 
better  for  all  of  us.  To-day,  for  some  reason,  she  failed' 
to  appear,  but  previous  to  that  she  has  not  failed  for  five 
m.ornings  in  succession  to  batter  down  the  same  bit  of 
our  parapet." 

"Where's  that?"  asks  the  major,  getting  out  a  trench- 
map. 

"P  7 — a  most  unhealthy  spot.     Minnie  pushes  it  over 


92  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

about  two  every  morning.  The  result  is  that  we  have  to 
mount  guard  over  the  breach  all  day.  We  build  every- 
thing up  again  at  night,  and  Minnie  sits  there  as  good  as 
gold,  and  never  dreams  of  interfering.  You  can  almost 
hear  her  cooing  over  us.  Then,  as  I  say,  at  two  o'clock, 
just  as  the  working  party  comes  in  and  gets  under  cover, 
she  lets  slip  one  of  her  disgusting  bombs,  and  undoes  the 
work  of  about  four  hours.  It  was  a  joke  at  first,  but  we 
are  getting  fed  up  now.  That's  the  worst  of  the  Boche. 
He  starts  by  being  playful;  but  if  not  suppressed  at 
once,  he  gets  rough;  and  that,  of  course,  spoils  all  the 
harmony  of  the  proceedings.  So  I  cordially  commend 
your  idea  of  the  one-fifty-five  turn,  sir." 

"I'll  see  what  can  be  done,"  says  the  major.  *T  think 
the  best  plan  would  be  a  couple  of  hours'  solid  fright- 
fulness,  from  every  battery  we  can  switch  on.  To-mor- 
row afternoon,  perhaps,  but  I'll  let  you  know.  You'll 
have  to  clear  out  of  this  bit  of  trench  altogether,  as  we 
shall  shoot  pretty  low.     So  long!" 

X— HOW  HOURS  PASS  IN  THE  DUGOUT 

It  is  six  o'clock  next  evening,  and  peace  reigns  over 
our  trench.  This  is  the  hour  at  which  one  usually  shells 
aeroplanes — or  rather,  at  which  the  Germans  shell  ours, 
for  their  own  seldom  venture  out  in  broad  daylight.  But 
this  evening,  although  two  or  three  are  up  in  the  blue, 
buzzing  inquisitively  over  the  enemy's  lines,  their  attend- 
ant escort  of  white  shrapnel  pufifs  is  entirely  lacking. 
Far  away  behind  the  German  lines  a  house  is  burning 
fiercely. 

"The  Hun  is  a  bit  piano  to-night,"  observes  Captain 
Blaikie,  attacking  his  tea. 

"The  Hun  has  been  rather  firmly  handled  this  after- 
noon," replies  Captain  Wagstaife.    "I  think  he  has  had 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  93 

an  eye-opener.  There  are  no  flies  on  our  Divisional  Ar- 
tillery." 

Bobby  Little  heaved  a  contented  sigh.  For  two  hours 
that  afternoon  he  had  sat,  half-deafened,  while  six-inch 
shells  skimmed  the  parapet  in  both  directions,  a  few  feet 
above  his  head.  The  Gunner  major  had  been  as  good  as 
his  word.  Punctually  at  one-fifty-five  "Minnie's"  two 
o'clock  turn  had  been  anticipated  by  a  round  of  high-ex- 
plosive shells  directed  into  her  suspected  place  of  resi- 
dence. What  the  actual  result  had  been  nobody  knew, 
but  Minnie  had  made  no  attempt  to  raise  her  voice  since. 
Thereafter  the  German  front-line  trenches  had  been  "plas- 
tered" from  end  to  end,  while  the  trenches  farther  back 
were  attended  to  with  methodical  thoroughness.  The 
German  guns  had  replied  vigorously,  but  directing  only  a 
passing  fire  at  the  trenches,  had  devoted  their  efforts 
chiefly  to  the  silencing  of  the  British  artillery.  In  this 
enterprise  they  had  been  remarkably  unsuccessful. 

"Any  casualties?"  asked  Blaikie. 

"None  here,"  replied  Wagstaflfe.  "There  may  be  some 
back  in  the  support  trenches." 

"We  might  telephone  and  inquire." 

"No  good  at  present.  The  wires  are  all  cut  to  pieces. 
The  signallers  are  repairing  them  now." 

'7  was  nearly  a  casualty,"  confessed  Bobby  modestly. 

"How?" 

"That  first  shell  of  ours  nearly  knocked  my  head  oflf! 
I  was  standing  up  at  the  time,  and  it  rather  took  me  by 
surprise.  It  just  cleared  the  parados.  In  fact,  it  kicked 
a  lot  of  gravel  into  the  back  of  my  neck." 

"Most  people  get  it  in  the  neck  here,  sooner  or  later," 
remarked  Captain  Blaikie  sententiously.  "Personally,  I 
don't  much  mind  being  killed,  but  I  do  bar  being  buried 
alive.  That  is  why  I  dislike  Minnie  so."  He  rose,  and 
stretched  himself.    "Heigho!     I  suppose  it's  about  time 


94  ''The  First  Hundred  Thousand'' 

we  detailed  patrols  and  working  parties  for  to-night. 
What  a  lovely  sky  !  A  truly  peaceful  atmosphere — what  ? 
It  gives  one  a  sort  of  Sunday-evening  feeling,  somehow." 

"May  I  suggest  an  explanation?"  said  Wagstaffe. 

"By  all  means." 

"It  is  Sunday  evening !" 

Captain  Blaikie  whistled  gently,  and  said — 

"By  Jove,  so  it  is."  Then,  after  a  pause:  "This  time 
last  Sunday " 

XI— A  SOLDIER'S  SUNDAY  AT  THE  FRONT 

Last  Sunday  had  been  an  off-day — a  day  of  cloudless 
summer  beauty.  Tired  men  had  slept;  tidy  men  had 
washed  their  clothes ;  restless  men  had  wandered  at  ease 
about  the  countryside,  careless  of  the  guns  which 
grumbled  everlastingly  a  few  miles  away.  There  had 
been  impromptu  Church  Parades  for  each  denomination, 
in  the  corner  of  a  wood  which  was  part  of  the  demesne 
of  a  shell-torn  chateau. 

It  is  a  sadly  transformed  wood.  The  open  space  before 
the  chateau,  once  a  smooth  expanse  of  tennis-lawn,  is 
now  a  dusty  picketing-ground  for  transport  mules,  desti- 
tute of  a  single  blade  of  grass.  The  ornamental  lake  is 
full  of  broken  bottles  and  empty  jam-tins.  The  pagoda- 
like summer  house,  so  inevitable  to  French  chateau  gar- 
dens, is  a  quartermaster's  store.  Half  the  trees  have 
been  cut  down  for  fuel.  Still,  the  July  sun  streams  very 
pleasantly  through  the  remainder,  and  the  Psalms  of 
David  float  up  from  beneath  their  shade  quite  as  sweetly 
as  they  usually  do  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  pre- 
centor's desk  in  the  kirk  at  home — perhaps  sweeter. 

The  wood  itself  is  a  point  d'appui,  or  fortified  post. 
One  has  to  take  precautions,  even  two  or  three  miles  be- 
hind the  main  firing  line.  A  series  of  trenches  zigzags 
in  and  out  among  the  trees,  and  barbed  wire  is  interlaced 


"The  First  Hundred  Thousand"  95 

with  the  undergrowth.  In  the  farthermost  corner  Hes  an 
improvised  cemetery.  Some  of  the  inscriptions  on  the 
Httle  wooden  crosses  are  only  three  days  old.  Merely 
to  read  a  few  of  these  touches  the  imagination  and  stirs 
the  blood.  Here  you  may  see  the  names  of  English  Tom- 
mies and  Highland  Jocks,  side  by  side  with  their  Ca- 
nadian kith  and  kin.  A  little  apart  lie  more  graves,  sur- 
mounted by  epitaphs  written  in  strange  characters,  such 
as  few  white  men  can  read.  These  are  the  Indian 
troops.  There  they  lie,  side  by  side — the  mute  wastage 
of  war,  but  a  living  testimony,  even  in  their  last  sleep,  to 
the  breadth  and  unity  of  the  British  Empire.  The  great, 
machine-made  Empire  of  Germany  can  show  no  such 
graves :  when  her  soldiers  die,  they  sleep  alone. 

The  Church  of  England  service  had  come  last  of  all. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  a  youthful  and  red-faced  chaplain 
had  arrived  on  a  bicycle,  to  find  a  party  of  officers  and 
men  lying  in  the  shade  of  a  broad  oak  waiting  for  him. 
(They  were  a  small  party:  naturally,  the  great  majority 
of  the  regiment  are  what  the  identity-discs  call  "Pres" 
or  "R.C.") 

"Sorry  to  be  late,  sir,"  he  said  to  the  senior  officer, 
saluting.  "This  is  my  sixth  sh — service  to-day,  and  I 
have  come  seven  miles  for  it." 

He  mopped  his  brow  cheerfully ;  and  having  produced 
innumerable  hymn-books  from  a  saddle-bag  and  set  his 
congregation  in  array,  read  them  the  service,  in  a  par- 
ticularly pleasing  and  well-modulated  voice.  After  that 
he  preached  a  modest  and  manly  little  sermon,  contain- 
ing references  which  carried  Bobby  Little,  for  one,  back 
across  the  Channel  to  other  scenes  and  other  company. 
After  the  sermon  came  a  hymn,  sung  with  great  vigor. 
Tommy  loves  singing  hymns — when  he  happens  to  know 
and  like  the  tune. 

"I  know  you  chaps  like  hymns,"  said  the  padre,  when 


96  "The  First  Hundred  Thousand" 

they  had  finished.  "Let's  have  another  before  you  go. 
What  do  you  want  ?" 

A  most  unlikely-looking  person  suggested  "Abide 
with  Me."  When  it  was  over,  and  the  party,  standing  as 
rigid  as  their  own  rifles,  had  sung  "God  Save  the  King," 
the  preacher  announced  awkwardly — almost  apologetic- 
ally— 

"If  any  of  you  would  like  to — er — communicate,  I  shall 
be  very  glad.  May  not  have  another  opportunity  for 
some  time,  you  know.  I  think  over  there" — he  indicated 
a  quiet  corner  of  the  wood,  not  far  from  the  little  ceme- 
tery'— "would  be  a  good  place." 

He  pronounced  the  benediction,  and  then,  after  further 
recurrence  to  his  saddle-bag,  retired  to  his  improvised 
sanctuary.  Here,  with  a  ration-box  for  altar,  and  strands 
of  barbed  wire  for  choir-stalls,  he  made  his  simple  prepa- 
rations. 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  men,  and  all  the  officers,  followed 
him.    That  was  just  a  week  ago. 

Captain  Wagstaffe  broke  the  silence  at  last. 

"It's  a  rotten  business,  war,"  he  said  pensively — "when 
you  come  to  think  of  it.  Hallo,  there  goes  the  first  star- 
shell  !    Come  along,  Bobby  !" 

Dusk  had  fallen.  From  the  German  trenches  a  thin 
luminous  thread  stole  up  into  the  darkening  sky,  leaned 
over,  drooped,  and  burst  into  dazzling  brilliance  over 
the  British  parapet.  Simultaneously  a  desultory  rifle  fire 
crackled  down  the  lines.     The  night's  work  had  begun. 

(Ian  Hay  relates  innumerable  stories,  each  filled  with 
absorbing  human  emotions.  Among  them  are :  "The  Con- 
version of  Private  M'Slattery;"  "Shooting  Straight;" 
"Deeds  of  Darkness ;"  "The  Gathering  of  the  Eagles ;" 
"The  Battle  of  the  Slag-Heaps,"  all  of  which  are  the  nar- 
ratives of  a  trained  novelist  direct  from  the  battlefield.) 


SOME  EXPERIENCES  IN  HUNGARY 

In  the  Palace  of  Prince  and  Princess  K 

By  Mina  Macdonaldy  English  Companion  to  the  Two 
Daughters  of  a  Hungarian  Magnate 

These  experiences  of  an  English  girl  throw  a  new  light  on  the 
character  of  the  Hungarian  noble  families.  At  the  outbreak  of 
the  War,  she  was  companion  to  the  two  daughters  of  a  Hun- 
garian Prince  who  resided  in  the  vicmity  of  Pressburg.  This 
gave  her  an  opportunity  of  gauging  the  sentiments  of  those  con- 
nected with  the  House  of  Hapsburg.  They  discussed  the  War 
with  frankness  in  her  presence.  The  family  treated  her  pre- 
cisely as  one  of  their  own  and  at  no  time  considered  her  as  an 
"enemy  alien."  In  the  preface  to  her  narrative,  Miss  MacDonald 
says:  "If  other  British  subjects  in  Austria  proper  were  treated 
more  rigorously,  they  must  lay  the  blame  on  instructions  received 
from  Berlin.  My  own  experiences  in  the  Hungarian  family  dur- 
ing the  throes  of  a  World  War  may,  perchance,  induce  British 
(and  American)  readers  to  think  more  highly  of  the  gallant 
Magyar  race."  Selections  from  her  narrative  are  here  presented 
by  courtesy  of  her  publishers,  Longmans,  Green  and  Company. 

*  I— THE  CASTLE  IN  THE  CARPATHIANS 

The  village  of  K stands  in  a  pleasant  mountain 

valley  among  the  White  Carpathians  on  the  borders  of 
Moravia.  ...  It  cannot  even  lay  claim  to  the  various 
dissensions  of  its  neighbouring  town  S where  repre- 
sentatives of  every  race,  religion,  and  political  party  to  be 
found  in  Austria  and  Hungary,  keep  the  town  like  a 


*A11  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told— not  to  chapters 
in  the  original  sources. 

97 


98  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

boiling  pot.    It  is  far  otherwise  in  K which  is  solidly 

and  frankly  Clovak,  Catholic,  and  anti-Austrian.  The 
peasants  who,  with  the  exception  of  the  priest,  the  school- 
master and  the  inn-keeper,  constitute  the  population  of 
village,  are  all  dirty,  drunken,  hard-working,  and  intelli- 
gent. 

The  Schloss  is  an  old  white  building  full  of  beauty  and 
interest,  built  on  the  hill  below  the  village,  in  the  midst 
of  a  park  where  Maria  Therese  used  to  hunt.  .  .  .  The 
■gardens  which  surround  the  Schloss  are  so  beautifully 
laid  out  and  so  ornamented  with  fountains  and  statues 

that  K is  known  to  Hungarians  as  the  Miniature 

Versailles;  the  head  gardener  being  a  person  of  such 

serious  importance  in  K that  even  the  Herrschaft  at 

the  Schloss  speak  of  and  treat  him  not  as  an  ordinary 
gardener  but  as  a  Man  of  Art.  Indoors,  too,  the  house 
confirms  its  reputation  of  being  a  small  Versailles,  for 
the  collection  of  pictures  and  antiquities,  begun  centuries 
ago,  is  pursued  by  the  Prince  of  to-day  with  vigour,  and 
carping  guests  have  been  heard  to  remark  that  though 
there  wasn't  a  chair  in  the  Schloss  but  had  a  history  and 
a  value  that  made  ordinary  mortals'  hair  stand  on  end, 
there  also  wasn't  one  that  offered  any  ease  or  comfort 
>except  in  the  Prince's  den  where  all  was  modern — but 
-sacred  to  the  Prince. 

Life  was  always  merry  at  the  Schloss,  and  it  was  a 

very  jolly  party  that  Excellenz  von  R found  gathered 

there  when  she  arrived  hot  and  cross  from  Vienna,  on 
June  28,  1914,  bringing  her  bad  news.  We  were:  the 
Prince  and  Princess — the  best-natured  and  most  happy- 
go-lucky  of  all  hosts  and  hostesses ;  their  daughters, 
Claire  aged  twenty-one,  fair,  blue-eyed  and  very  beauti- 
ful, and  Billy  aged  eighteen,  large  and  dark  and  interested 
in  all  things  pertaining  to  sport;  General  T ,  round, 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  99 

white-haired,  and  explosive — once  Commandant  of  a 
very  famous  Galician  fortress,  but  now  living  in  irksome 
retirement  in  Vienna;  his  son  Walther,  a  lieutenant  of 
Uhlans,  known  to  us  as  'The  Babe";  finally,  myself, 
known  to  everybody  as  Jerry — a  name  which  no  circum- 
stances could  make  beautiful,  and  which  became  heart- 
breaking when  invariably  pronounced  there  as  **Sherry." 

Everybody  knew  and  liked  Excellenz  von  R ,  vvho 

was  a  very  gay  and  enterprising  old  lady,  and  Claire, 
Billy,  and  I  who  had  looked  forward  in  pleasure  to  her 
coming,  awaited  her  at  the  gates  and  clambered  into  the 
carriage  from  both  sides  as  it  passed— for  Jan,  the  coach- 
man who  had  driven  Excellencies  to  and  from  the  Schloss 
for  the  past  twenty-five  years,  found  it  beneath  his  dig- 
nity to  stop  at  the  gates  to  take  us  in,  so  we  tumbled  in 
as  best  we  could  on  and  around  Excellenz,  whose  face 
was  long  and  tragic. 

II— "THE  ARCHDUKE  AND  SOPHIE  WERE 
SHOT  TO-DAY" 

"Ach,  my  dear  children,  have  mercy  on  eld  bones  1 
And  I  bring  you  bad  news!  The  Tronfolger  and  his 
wife  were  shot  to-day  in  Sarajevo.  Oh,  poor  Sophie!" 
and  Excellenz,  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Duchess,  burst  into  tears.  "It's  quite  true  too— official 
before  I  left  Vienna  this  afternoon." 

But  Jan  was  before  her  at  the  house  and  called  as  he 
drove  up,  to  the  footman  on  the  steps — 

"Tronfolger  mit  Frau  heute  geschossen." 

German,  which  he  insisted  on  speaking,  was  not  Jan's 
strong  point.  The  footman,  a  Bohemian  and  anti-Aus- 
trian, sniffed  at  this  lack  of  breeding,  and  answered  very 
casually  "So."  Excellenz,  though  she  was  still  weeping, 
was  ver>^  angry  and  shook  her  fist  at  Jan,  but  she  got  her 


100  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

innings  in  the  hall  where  the  Princess  was  awaiting — in 
perplexity  as  she  saw  Excellenz's  wrath  and  tears. 

"What,  Francesca,  you  arrive  in  tears  at  K ?" 

"Yes,  I  should  think  I  do — it's  too  awful,"  and  Excel- 
lenz  sobbed  out  her  news. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  the  Princess.  "How  can  you 
believe  these  wild  stories?  Besides,  who  would  shoot 
that  pair?" 

"But  it's  official." 

"What  is  official?"  asked  the  Prince  appearing. 

"The  Archduke  and  Sophie  were  shot  to-day  in  Sara- 
jevo." 

"Then  what  the  devil  made  them  go  there?  They 
might  know  beforehand  that  they  wouldn't  get  out  of 
there  with  whole  skins,"  he  replied,  greeting  his  guest. 

In  the  drawing-room  I  found  the  General,  who  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  had  been  forgotten.  He  said 
as  usual,  "Pooh!  that's  not  a  funny  joke,  Sherry." 

"That  may  be;  but  it's  official,  and  you  ought  not  to 
receive  your  'officials'  with  'pooh,'  but  perhaps  it's  your 

way  here.     Here  is  Excellenz  von  R in  tears — she 

has  brought  the  news  from  Vienna." 

"Old  wives'  tales !    I  don't  believe  it." 

Excellenz  nevertheless  persuaded  him. 

"Donnerwetter !  Jesus  Maria !  And  she  tried  to  save 
him!  Plucky  woman — always  was  plucky.  Skinflint 
though — a  skinflint.  Too  fond  of  the  Jesuits !  This  plot 
was  arranged  in  Serbia,  I'll  stake  my  life — stake  my  life. 
Ach,  those  Serbs !  The  scum  of  creation — scum  of  crea- 
tion !  We  must  exterminate  them  one  day.  They  have 
always  been  a  trouble,  but  this  will  bring  about  their 
end  at  last.  Ach,  the  poor  Archduke  and  the  poor 
Duchess!    Ach!    Pooh!" 

"Personally,"  said  the  Prince,  "I  think  you  needn't  be 
so  angry  with  the  Serbs.    They've  done  us  a  good  turn 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  loi 

really.  The  Archduke — it's  useless  to  pretend  otherwise, 
General — was  the  best  hated  man  in  Austria,  and  the 
Duchess  the  best-hated  woman.  Both  cared  only  for  the 
Church.  They  won't  really  be  regretted.  The  young 
Karl  Franz  Josef  may  be  the  saving  of  Austria  at  a 
critical  moment." 

Ill— GLIMPSES  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  A  PRINCESS 

Excellenz  von  R during  her  stay  in  K re- 
mained sad  over  the  murder  of  her  friend,  and  no  one 
spoke  of  anything  but  the  political  complications  which 
might  ensue.  The  plot,  it  seemed,  had  been  known  to  the 
military  and  civil  authorities  in  Sarajevo,  and  several 
arrests  made  even  before  the  tragedy.  The  Archduke 
was  very  uneasy,  and  asked  the  Governor,  General 
Potiorek,  if  it  was  safe  to  venture  out  to  the  reception  in 
the  town  hall.  "Absolutely  safe,"  General  Potiorek  was 
unwise  enough  to  reply,  "I  can  stake  my  own  life  on  your 
Highnesses'  safety." 

After  Excellenz  von  R returned  to  Vienna  the 

Bores  arrived  en  masse  to  spend  the  whole  month  of 

July  in  K .    They  were  the  Princess's  young  brother 

Count    R ,   his    wife,    and   children,    Elizabeth    and 

Stefan.  It  is  not  without  reason  that  they  are  known  as 
the  Bores.  The  Count  was  the  most  bearable  of  them — 
but  even  he  was  trying  to  one's  nerves  in  hot  weather. 
He  was  gay  and  irresponsible — had  squandered  his  own 
fortune,  and  as  much  of  his  wife's  as  she  would  allow 
him,  at  baccarat.  His  particular  sin  was  his  unfortunate 
habit  of  writing  verse  to  each  and  all  of  us  and  singing 
it,  to  his  own  melodies,  on  every  embarrassing  occasion. 
His  verse  was  clever — and  usually  true,  consequently  it 
annoyed.     The  countess  was  a  politician,  devoting  her 


102  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

attentions  to  the  General,  who  spent  his  days  in  trying  to 
avoid  her. 

"Jesus  Maria!"  he  would  say  when,  red  and  panting, 
he  had  made  good  his  escape.  **In  all  my  years  in  Bosnia 
and  Galicia  I  never  had  anything  like  this — pooh !" 

Elizabeth — usually  called  Bethi — was  sixteen,  and 
Stefan  was  twelve.  Both  were  small  but  they  overran 
the  whole  Schloss ;  no  person  or  thing  was  sacred  to 
them,  and  no  room  escaped  invasion.  .  .  .  Bethi  was  be- 
ing educated  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur  in  Buda- 
pest, where  all  disliking  her,  the  nuns  advised  her  mother 
to  have  the  girl's  education  completed  at  home — an  ad- 
vice which  we  in  Schloss  K could  so  well  understand 

and  sympathise  with!  .  .  . 

The  children  were  always  first  in  church,  occupying  the 
most  comfortable  chairs  in  the  chancel.  Once  they  actu- 
ally established  themselves  in  the  large  velvet  chairs 
placed  for  the  Prince  and  Princess.  Billy  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  dislodging  them,  and  Claire  and  I,  on  arrival,  had 
to  use  force — to  the  amusement  of  all  the  peasant  chil- 
dren— which  so  insulted  Stefan  that  he  sulked  during 
Mass  till  he  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  stretching  out 
his  foot  far  enough  to  trip  up  an  altar  boy.  The  priest 
stumbled  in  the  "Lavabo  inter  innocentes  manus  meas," 
and  the  old  church  servant,  who  had  in  earlier  days  been 
the  village  schoolmaster,  shot  out  of  the  sacristy,  as  was 
his  custom  when  the  attention  of  the  acolytes  wandered, 
and  soundly  cuffed  the  unfortunate  altar-boy.  Happily 
the  Countess  had  seen,  and  Stefan  had  a  very  bad  quarter 
of  an  hour  afterwards  in  the  Schloss. 

IV— DARK  DAYS  AFTER  THE  TRAGEDY 

There  were  days  of  tension  after  the  ultimatum  went 
to  Serbia.     The  press  was  very  restrained  but  clearly 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  103 

uneasy,  and  did  not  attempt  to  justify  the  extravagant 
tone  of  the  ultimatum.  General  opinion  as  to  whether 
the  Serbs  would  fight  or  not  was  not  very  divided,  and 
there  were  few  who  did  not  agree  that  Serbia  was  never 
intended  to  fight.  She  was  simply  to  behave  herself  in 
future  and  Austria  was  to  see  that  she  did  it.     General 

T was  indignant  at  the  ultimatum. 

"Berchtold  again!  Soft-headed  fool— pooh!  There 
are  so  many  ways  of  getting  what  one  wants— he  must 
just  choose  this  one!  This  way  may  really  lead  to  war, 
and  we  are  not  prepared— no  money,  no  munitions- 
nothing,  nothing!  Ach,  it's  an  awful  business!  Perhaps 
Serbia  won't  dare  to  fight  ...  if  the  Russians  back  her 

she  will!" 

''You  surely  can  scarcely  imagine  that  any  country 
could  take  such  an  ultimatum  lying  down?"  I  suggested. 
"Pooh,"  he  replied,  "yo^  can't  deny  that  they've  always 
been  a  thorn  in  our  flesh.  But  my  country  is  mad- 
mad '  Nobody  seems  to  realise  what  this  can  lead  to. 
The  Serbs  are  good  fighters  too.  If  Russia  backs  them 
we're  done  for.  Na,  I  must  get  back  to  Vienna  now,  for 
Walther  will  have  to  go  if  there's  war.  Pooh— they  re 
all  crazy  everywhere." 

Even  the  Man  of  Art  grew  mournful  among  his  rose- 
bushes.   He  was  Croatian  and  bitterly  anti-Austrian. 

"Ach  Fraulein !  There  are  sad  days  coming,  for  that 
wasn't  an  ultimatum  that  went  to  Serbia— it  was  a  decla- 
ration  of  war.  The  Serbs  will  f^ght,  Fraulem.  I  know 
the  race;  they  are  brave  men  such  as  we  have  in  Croatia. 
Of  course  they'll  fight.  They  are  real  soldiers  and  have 
real  offtcers-old  General  Putnik— that's  a  man !  They  11 
beat  us,  Fraulein,  and  I'll  have  to  go  and  fight  against 
them  too-against  my  own  race.  Bah !  we  re  slaves  here 
in  Austria." 


104  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

V— THE  PRINCE  WAS  "IRRITATED  BY  THE 
WAR" 

Then  came  the  Serbs'  reply  and  the  partial  mobilisa- 
tion of  the  Austrian  army.  Everybody  looked  grave  and 
the  Prince  became  distinctly  irritable. 

"Just  in  the  middle  of  the  harvest,  too !  What  a  time 
of  year  to  send  an  ultimatum!  How  the  devil  do  they 
expect  me  to  get  my  harvest  in,  if  they  take  my  men 
away?  The  lifting  of  the  beets  won't  even  begin  for  six 
weeks  yet." 

"War  will  be  finished  by  then,"  said  Billy,  "and  Serbia 
will  have  ceased  to  exist." 

"And  what  of  little  Poli — the  beautiful  Dragoon  with 
the  sky-blue  coat?"  asked  Claire.  "Won't  you  have  to 
return  to  Coding  and  join  your  regiment  now?" 

"This  upsets  all  my  plans  for  the  summer,"  replied  the 
soldier,  "and  it's  very  annoying,  and  it's  too  bad  of  them 
to  spring  a  war  upon  peace-loving  soldiers  like  this. 
They'll  telephone  to  me  if  they  want  me,  and  I  won't 
move  from  here  till  they  do." 

"And  if  the  telephone  is  out  of  order,  as  it  usually  is, 
you'll  be  shot  as  a  deserter,"  said  Billy. 

"Nevertheless,  I  won't  go,"  said  Poli,  for  the  Einjahr- 
igerfreiwilliger  was  a  man  of  peace  and  did  not  appre- 
ciate a  Government  which  enforced  days  of  warlike  pur- 
suits upon  him  each  year. 

But  Poli  had  to  go,  for  one  morning  about  four  o'clock, 
as  the  church  bells  were  ringing  the  Angelus,  the  order 
for  a  general  mobilisation  was  "drummed  out" — in  Hun- 
gary the  town  crier  always  uses  a  drum.  Being  much  too 
sleepy  to  grasp  what  he  said,  I  promptly  went  to  sleep 
again,  and  in  the  morning  discovered  that  I  was  the  one 
person  in  the  Schloss  who  had  not  been  at  all  upset  by 
the  news,  and  that  I  was  regarded  by  all  as  something 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  105 

approaching  a  monster  of  callousness.  There  was  the 
wildest  confusion  inside  and  outside  the  Schloss  when  I 
came  downstairs ;  all  the  outdoor  servants  had  gathered 
in  the  courtyard  to  say  good-bye  before  leaving  to  report 
themselves  at  their  "Kaders" ;  indoors  the  housemaids 
were  crying  as  they  went  about  their  work,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  the  Princess,  Claire,  and  I  managed 
at  last  to  get  some  sort  of  a  breakfast  served  by  a  scared- 
looking  butler.  The  Prince  and  Billy  had  been  up  at  the 
stables  for  some  time,  for  the  officials  had  already  arrived 
to  claim  the  horses  on  the  Government  list.  "And  all 
our  riding-horses  will  have  to  go — every  one  of  them," 
sobbed  the  Princess,  "yes,  even  Hadur — nothing  but 
Claire's  little  horses,  which  are  too  young,  and  one  other 
pair  will  be  left." 

VI— WEEPING  PEASANTS  FLOCK  TO  WAR 

The  road  was  simply  alive — peasants  leading  in  their 
horses,  recruits  wearing  the  Hungarian  red,  white  and 
green  in  their  hats,  cartloads  of  Jews  huddled  together 
weeping  and  wailing  because  their  Moishes  and  Aarons 
had  to  go,  wild-looking  gipsies  who  had  never  done  mili- 
tary service,  dancing  and  singing  in  the  gladness  of  their 
hearts  that  when  others  were  taken  they  were  left  to  steal 
and  sing. 

The  town  of  S was  seething  with  excited  gesticu- 
lating crowds  of  people — all  soldiers  and  recruits  were 
drunk — the  women- folk  sobbing  and  screaming — the  gip- 
sies who  lived  in  the  town  drunken  and  singing  and  danc- 
ing like  their  brethren  in  the  country — every  one  was 
hurried  and  anxious,  men,  women,  children  and  horses 
were  all  mixed  up  and  military  automobiles  rushing  about 
everywhere.  .  .  .  We  reached  the  Oberstuhlrichter's  door 


io6  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

in  safety,  but  so  bruised  and  breathless  that  we  could 
hardly  move.  Our  friend,  the  Oberstuhlrichter  was  so 
harassed  and  overworked,  that  he  had  nothing  to  say  but 
— "For  the  love  of  Heaven,  my  dears,  go  away.  I  really 
know  nothing  myself  except  that  Germany  and  Russia 
are  now  in  the  fray  and  I've  got  to  get  all  the  recruits 
away  from  here  at  once.    Now  go  away  and  leave  me." 

VII— THE  WISDOM  OF  UNCLE  PISTA 

From  him  we  went  to  Aunt  Sharolta  and  Uncle  Pista 
— in  Hungary  all  older  people  are  addressed  as  uncle  or 
aunt.  Aunt  Sharolta  was  nearly  blind,  but  wonderfully 
sweet  and  gentle ;  and  Uncle  Pista  was  small,  round  and 
jovial — red-faced  and  white-haired.  He  always  wore  a 
piece  of  plaster  on  his  nose,  and  we  often  speculated  as 
to  what  might  be  below  that  plaster,  for  it  certainly  never 
was  changed,  and  whether  it  had  originally  been  black 
or  pink  no  one  knew,  for  from  time  immemorial  it  was 
grey.  He  was  the  most  intrepid  politician  I  have  ever 
met.  He  had  learned  geography  sixty  years  ago,  had 
forgotten  it  for  fifty,  and  I  doubt  if  he  rightly  knew 
where  Serbia  lay  from  Austria.  His  daughters'  geo- 
graphical views  were  based  on  their  father's. 

When,  on  this  particular  day,  we  appeared  in  their 
house,  hot  and  breathless  and  looking  as  if  we  had  been 
picked  out  of  the  hay-stack,  we  found  Uncle  Pista  be- 
moaning his  horses  and  saying  that  if  this  sort  of  thing 
would  continue  he  would  have  no  nerves  left.  Aunt 
Sharolta  was  turning  out  all  her  drawers  for  things  to 
manufacture  into  comforts  for  the  soldiers,  and  having 
unearthed  a  piece  of  grey  material  em.broidered  with 
rose-buds  she  was  making  it  into  a  chest-protector. 

"Our  boys,"  she  explained,  "will  die  of  cold  in  Russia, 
if  we  don't  make  warm  clothes  for  them." 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  107 

"What's  more  to  the  point,  my  horses  will  die  of  cold 
in  Russia,"  grumbled  Uncle  Pista, 

"You  don't  think,  then,  that  the  Russians  may  break 
into  Galicia?"  I  suggested. 

"What  an  idea!  Our  army  won't  let  them.  Russia 
will  take  six  weeks  to  mobilise — she  can't  do  it  in  less — 
and  by  that  time  we  shall  have  finished  off  Serbia  and 
we  can  join  the  Germans  in  Russia.  It's  a  pity  though 
that  the  German  Kaiser  didn't  keep  quiet ;  of  course  he 
knows  best,  but  there's  no  question  but  the  Tsar  was 
very  impertinent  to  him  lately,  and  William  is  hot-tem- 
pered. I've  no  doubt  it's  for  the  best,  and  it's  one  of 
God's  mercies  that  we  have  the  Kaiser  behind  us  to  help 
us  against  Russia.  Our  boys  will  be  in  St.  Petersburg 
long  before  Christmas." 

VIII— THE  PRINCE  CALLED  THEM  ALL  FOOLS 

Partridge  shooting  opened  on  August  ist,  and  the 
Prince  and  Billy — for  the  keepers  were  all  away  at  their 
Kaders — collected  some  beaters — among  whom  the 
naughty  and  clever  Joszo,  resplendent  in  carpet  slippers, 
a  pair  of  old  gaiters,  and  an  old  cartridge  belt — and  set 
out  to  a  melancholy  half-hearted  shoot,  from  which  Billy 
returned  in  a  dismal  humour.  They  had  shot  little  and 
had  thought  all  the  time  of  the  men — German,  Austrian, 
Russian,  and  French — who  had  shot  with  them  last  year 
and  who  were  now  engaged  in  shooting  one  another; 
the  Prince  had  spoken  all  the  time,  too,  of  his  friend  the 
Grand  Duke  Nicholai  Nicholaievich,  who  had  hitherto 
been  such  a  charming  and  clever  man,  but  who,  now  that 
he  was  to  lead  the  Russians,  was  nothing  but  a  mahog- 
any-coloured giant;  and  it  was  a  disgusting  world,  and 
how  could  anybody  ever  be  happy  again.  .  .  . 

The  days  that  followed  were  very  anxious.  France, 
the  newspapers   said,   declared   war  on   Germany;   and 


I08  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

Austria  felt  cross  and  shocked.  How  could  France  de- 
clare war  on  any  country  when  she  was  herself,  as  the 
whole  world  knew,  so  little  prepared?  But  there  would 
be  a  revolution  in  France,  and  Poincare  would  be  guillo- 
tined for  rushing  his  country  into  war  like  that.  Oh, 
yes,^  all  were  agreed,  nothing  was  surer  than  that  Poin- 
care would  meet  the  traitor's  death  he  deserved.  ...  My 
return  to  England  had  been  planned  for  September,  and 
I  began  to  think  that  I  ought  to  try  to  leave  at  once,  but 
this  was  laughed  down. 

"How  do  you  propose  to  go,  Jerry— by  private  balloon  ? 
For  everything  on  wheels  is  in  the  hands  of  the  army  at 
present.  No,  whatever  happens  you  must  just  stay  with 
us — even  if  England  should  join  in,  you  will  easily  be 
home  for  Christmas— the  war  will  be  finished  long  be- 
fore then.  But  England  won't  fight,  so  why  should  we 
break  our  heads  about  it?" 

I  pointed  out  that  treaty  obligations  would  hardly  allow 
Great  Britain  to  stand  aside. 

"Treaty  obligations  don't  count  any  more,"  said  the 
Prince;  "the  Germans  are  in  Belgium." 

"Great  Britain,  I  imagine,  does  not  accept  the  German 
view  of  treaty  obligations.  Can't  you  really  see  that 
Germany  is  committing  a  crime  in  going  through  Belgium 
like  that?"  I  asked  the  Prince. 

"No,  absolutely  not,  when  the  French  were  already  in 
Belgium  before  France  declared  war  on  Germany.  And 
even  supposing  they  were  not  there,  Germany  would  still 
be  right  in  forcing  her  way  through— it's  a  case  of  the 
survival  of  the  fittest.  He*s  a  nice  fool  that  King  of  the 
Belgians !  He  had  simply  to  allow  the  Germans  through, 
and  he  would  have  been  well  paid  for  it  by  William.  Old 
Leopold  would  not  have  been  so  sillv." 

"There  you  are  right,"  I  said,  "he  probably  would  have 
sold  his  country." 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  109 

"Now,  Jerry,  don't  be  impertinent !  Anything  you  say 
now  will  be  used  against  you  if  England  declares  war  on 
us.    Don*t  forget  you're  our  prisoner  then." 

When  the  declaration  of  war  did  come  it  sobered  us 
somewhat !    The  Princess  quickly  recovered  and  said 

**Why  do  you  worry  about  it,  Jerry  ?  It's  not  a  matter 
between  you  and  me,  but  between  Grey  and  Berchtold — 
let  them  scratch  each  other's  eyes  out  if  they  like.  After 
all,  I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  so  angry  with  them,  for  it 
means  that  now  you've  got  to  remain  here  indefinitely — 
nolens  volens.  I  am  very  glad,  for  it  will  be  fearfully 
dull  here  without  our  usual  big  shooting  parties.  And 
now  come  and  play  bridge." 

That  was  the  way  in  which  the  Princess  looked  at  it 
all  the  time.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  persuade  her 
that  to  have  an  enemy  alien  in  the  house  might  be  very 
unpleasant  for  her:  she  could  never  see  why,  though 
England  and  Germany  hated  each  other  so  cordially,  she 
and  I  could  not  remain  the  good  friends  we  had  always 
been  and  live  peacefully  in  the  same  house. 

It  was  very  easy  for  us  to  disagree,  for,  after  a  course 
of  the  Neiie  Freie  Presse,  the  Neues  Wiener  Tagblatt 
and  the  Berliner  Tagblatt,  with  the  exception  of  myself 
and  the  servants — the  majority  of  whom  were  Slavs — 

the  inmates  of  Schloss  K were  soon  convinced  that  it 

was  England  that  had  been  behind  the  whole  conflagra- 
tion :  that  jealous  of  Germany's  dangerously  increasing 
foreign  trade,  she  sought  to  cripple  it  by  a  war,  and  ac- 
cordingly it  was  at  England's  suggestion  that  Russia 
bribed  the  Serbs  to  assassinate  the  Archduke — an  event 
which  the  Entente  felt  would  certainly  force  Germany's 
hand.  .  .  . 

"We  are  not  strong  enough  to  do  anything  ourselves, 


no  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

and  Germany  is  the  one  hope  of  our  existence.  What  can 
one  do  if  one  is  so  poor  and  so  divided  as  we  are?  Oh, 
but  Willy  will  save  us — a  plucky  dashing  fellow  who 
will  teach  you  all  a  lesson.  You  will  shed  bitter  tears  in 
England  yet." 

"We  shall  see,  when  the  war  is  over,  who  will  laugh  and 
who  will  cry,"  I  would  reply. 

IX— THE  ROMANCE  OF  MARISCHA 

I  have  said  that  all  the  servants  were  anti-Austrian. 
I  wrong  Marischa  and  probably  also  Therese.  The  latter 
was  the  maid  who  waited  on  me — a  Vienna  girl  whose 
views  were  probably  orthodox  enough.  .  .  .  She  was  a 
scullery-maid — round  as  a  barrel,  with  a  large,  good- 
humoured  face,  was  always  in  a  hurry  and  always  smil- 
ing, and  dressed  always  in  the  black  and  red  costume  of 
Moravia.  .  .  .  She  had  had  a  husband  who  left  her  years 
ago,  going  to  America,  from  where  he  wrote  to  say  that 
he  had  had  enough  of  her  and  did  not  intend  to  return 
to  her.  Then  Stefka  Stefan  came  into  her  life  and  she 
found  him  irresistible.  ...  He  was  small,  sulky,  and 
delicate  looking,  not  as  one  pictures  a  hero  of  romance; 
but  he  was  very  devoted  to  Marischa  and,  if  she  could 
have  got  a  divorce  from  her  husband,  he  would  have 
married  her ;  but,  as  she  explained  to  me  in  her  inimitable 
way,  this  wasn't  possible. 

"Priest  say  no  divorce,  so  Marischa  yes  just  live  like 
that  with  Stefan.  Prince  and  Princess  yes  give  Marischa 
and  Stefan  house.  Marischa's  husband  no  good  man,  but 
Stefan  yes  good  man  and  yes  want  to  marry  Marischa: 
priest  say  no  possible,  so  Marischa  yes  live  just  like  that 
with  Stefan." 

Nevertheless  her  romance  was  a  very  real  grief  to 
Marischa,  for  the  priest  at  confession  would  never  give 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  iii 

her  absolution,  and  her  enforced  abstinence  from  commu- 
nion pained  her  more  than  it  would  many  of  her  class. 
The  earthly  tie  was  stronger  and  Stefka  Stefan  continued 

to  work  in  the  garden  at  Schloss  K and  to  live  in 

Marischa's  cottage.  In  spite  of  many  protests  the  Prince 
was  obdurate  and  refused  to  send  the  couple  away,  say- 
ing, with  easy  Hungarian  carelessness,  that  the  life  in 
Marischa's  cottage  was  better  and  purer  than  in  the  next 
house  where  at  one  side  the  gamekeeper  beat  his  wife,  and 
at  the  other  the  butler  was  in  turn  beaten  by  his  wife. 
Marischa's  loyalty  simply  oozed  out  of  her. 

"Kaiser  brave  man,  yes  brave  man.  Kaiser  fears  only 
God,  so  God  let  Kaiser  win." 

"Which  Kaiser,  Marischa?" 

"German  Kaiser.  Our  King  Kaiser  yes  old  man  now 
not  know  like  German  Kaiser  yes  know — fears  God — 
fears  God." 

It  was  a  pity  to  spoil  this  beautiful  faith,  so  I  always 
remained  on  very  good  terms  with  Marischa,  who  always 
greeted  me  with  a  smile  of  affection  and  pity  that  was 
touching. 

X— STORIES  THE  PEASANTS  BROUGHT  HOME 

News  of  great  deeds  soon  came  from  Serbia,  where  the 
Austrians  were  supposed  to  be  already  in  the  heart  of  the 
country.  No  lie  was  ever  too  big  for  the  Austrian  papers, 
and  the  jubilation  througout  the  country  over  the  imag- 
inary successes  in  Serbia  knew  no  bounds.  .  .  . 

The  fields  had  become  very  empty  and  sad:  instead  of 
the  crowds  of  jolly  handsome  young  peasant  lads,  singing 
their  beautiful  Slovak  songs  as  they  worked,  there  were 
now  only  a  few  old  men  and  women,  and  gipsies  who 
would  follow  one  any  distance  begging  all  the  time  for 
"a  Kreutzer  for  the  love  of  God,  Mistress." 

The  men-servants  who  had  gone  to  their  Kaders  soon 


112  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

began  to  return.  First  came  the  Man  of  Art.  We  had 
all  been  sitting  outside  on  the  terrace  when  we  heard 
that  this  first  of  the  heroes  had  returned,  and  he  was  at 
once  summoned  to  give  his  report.  His  heart  was  bad, 
so  bad  that  the  doctor  feared  that  the  exertion  of  even  a 
few  days*  military  service  might  kill  him,  therefore — with 
many  shakes  of  his  head — he  would  never  fight  for  his 
country. 

"Where  did  they  tell  you  that?"  I  asked. 

"In  Agram,  Fraulein,"  very  mournfully. 

"They  didn't  expect  you  to  believe  it,  I  hope?" 

But  the  Princess  interrupted.  "Don't  ask  these  awk- 
ward questions,  Jerry.  We're  much  too  glad  to  have 
him  back  again  to  go  very  deeply  into  the  details  of  his 
terrible  illness.  And  now,  Herr  Gartner,  give  us  all  your 
news  of  the  war." 

He  did,  and  how  they  wished  he  didn't! 

"The  Herrschaft  all  thought  Russia  would  take  six 
weeks  to  mobilise — well,  the  Russians  are  in  Galicia  now. 
Our  armies  there  were  far  too  small  and  badly  prepared, 
and  they  have  been  cut  to  pieces.  The  great  body  of 
troops  is  being  withdrawn  from  Serbia  up  to  Galicia,  and 
we  have  had  very  serious  reverses  in  Serbia  too.  It's 
our  officers  that  are  no  good.  I  travelled  with  a  Bul- 
garian who  had  come  from  Moscow  to  Agram  through 
Roumania,  and  he  says  the  Russian  mobilisation  is  com- 
plete, and  that  he  didn't  think  there  were  so  many  men 
on  earth  as  he  saw  pouring  through  Moscow  as  the 
Siberian  troops  came  up.  The  Herrschaft  cannot  hear 
those  things,  as  they  sit  in  the  gardens  here  away  from 
it  all,  but  I  know  for  a  fact  that  the  Russians  are  in 
Galicia  and  Lemberg  is  about  to  fall." 

"And  yet  the  newspapers  speak  only  of  the  success  of 
our  offensive  against  Serbia,"  said  Claire,  in  tears. 

"Our  newspapers  are  the  most  lying  on  earth,  High- 


Some  Experiences  in  Hungary  113 

ness,  and  I  tell  you  that  Austria  will  lose,  and  lose  badly 
in  this  war." 

Consternation  of  all!  An  Englishwoman  to  hear  all 
this! 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  Prince,  shortly,  "and  I  should 
advise  you  not  to  repeat  in  the  village  what  you've  just 
said,  else  you'll  get  yourself  into  trouble."  The  Princess 
then  hurried  the  offender  off  to  the  gardens  before  more 
could  be  said. 

In  a  few  days  the  gamekeeper  arrived  back,  to  the 
annoyance  of  his  wife,  who  had  hoped  that  the  war  would 
end  her  beatings  for  some  time.  His  uncle  was  an  army 
doctor,  and  no  reasonable  being  could  expect  the  game- 
keeper to  be  strong  and  well  in  such  circumstances — heart 
disease  again,  of  the  most  incurable  kind.  The  butler 
and  the  first  footman  returned  from  Bohemia — the  one 
with  varicose  veins,  and  the  other  with  heart  disease. 

The  newspapers  were  silent  about  the  Russian  front, 
but  became  more  and  more  triumphant  about  events  in 
Serbia,  where  Conrad  von  Hotzendorf  expected  the 
whole  Serbian  army  to  be  surrounded  in  a  few  days  by 
the  Austrians  under  General  Potiorek,  who,  in  his  capac- 
ity of  Military  Governor  of  Bosnia,  when  the  Archduke 
and  his  wife  w^ere  shot,  had  been  sent  to  punish  the 
Serbs. 

I  soon  began  to  receive  and  to  send  English  letters 
through  Rome,  and  during  the  rest  of  the  time  I  was  in 
Hungary  I  had  no  trouble  with  my  mails,  despite  the 
fact  that  foreign  correspondence  was  forbidden  to  enemy 
aliens.  It  was  very  difficult  for  me  to  realise  that  I  was 
an  enemy  alien,  for  my  liberties  were  hindered  in  no 
way.  .  .  . 

XI— THE  OLD  ADMIRAL  ARRIVES 

At  the  end  of  the  month  the  Admiral  arrived  from 


114  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

Vienna.  He  was  no  longer  young,  but  he  was  very  enter- 
prising, and,  though  for  many  years  retired,  he  now 
offered  himself  to  his  country,  which  was  ungrateful 
enough  to  evince  no  very  pressing  need  of  his  services.  .  .  . 

The  Admiral  brought  us  all  the  news  of  Vienna,  which 
he  described  as  being  in  a  state  of  wild  enthusiasm  and 
satisfaction.  Day  by  day  Italy's  declaration  of  war  on 
the  Allies  was  awaited,  and,  as  expectancy  gradually 
died,  Vienna's  rage  against  Italy  knew  no  bounds.  A 
popular  joke  in  the  city  then  was: — 

*'Was  ist  der  Dreibund?  Ein  Zweibund  und  ein 
Vagabund !" 

But,  the  Admiral  assured  us,  everybody  knew  that  the 
Zweibund  would  win  without  the  Vagabund :  Willy  would 
see  to  that ;  he  had  all  that  was  necessary  to  win  a  war, 
men,  munitions,  and  brains.  No,  there  never  was  a  man 
so  plucky  as  Willy.  The  Admiral's  thoughts,  from  force 
of  habit,  lingered  on  things  naval,  and  his  morning  greet- 
ing was,  invariably — 

"Good  morning!  To-day  we  shall  hear  something 
from  the  sea!" 

We  all  grew  impatient  as  time  passed  and  the  Admiral's 
big  sea-battle  failed  to  take  place.  I  once  dared  to  sug- 
gest that  the  German  Fleet  was  afraid  to  come  out.  The 
Admiral's  remaining  hairs  literally  stood  on  end. 

"Afraid !  Oh,  Miss  Jerry  !  You  must  have  patience — 
they  will  come  out  in  time.  What  do  you  suppose  Willy 
built  his  Dreadnoughts  for?  To  sit  in  the  Kiel  Canal, 
perhaps  ?" 

There  was  never  even  a  hint  in  the  Austrian  papers  of 
any  doings  at  sea  at  all ;  but  the  Man  of  Arts  knew  of  the 
clearing  of  enemy  ships  from  the  seas  by  the  Allied  Fleets. 
It  was  in  the  Slav  papers. 

"But  how  do  you  manage  to  get  those  papers?"  I  once 
asked. 


Some  Experiences,  in  Hungary  115 

"Na,  Fraulein;  don't  ask  me  that.  To  have  that 
known  is  as  much  as  my  hfe  is  worth.  But  you  can  be 
quite  certain  that  I'm  not  the  only  person  here  who  gets 
them." 

Japan's  declaration  of  war  was  the  surprise  of  the 
Admiral's  life,  and  his  rage  was  almost  classic.  It  was 
right,  though,  he  said,  for  the  Allies  to  welcome  the 
yellow  Japs  to  their  rainbow  collection  of  soldiers! 

Uncle  Pista  was  charmingly   funny  about  Japan  one 
afternoon  when  Clare,  the  Admiral,  and  I  went  to  tea  t 
Aunt  Sharolta. 

"Japan  will  regret  what  she  has  done,"  and  in  antici- 
pation of  this  his  face  grew  rounder  and  redder.  "There 
won't  be  much  left  of  her  by  the  time  that  Germany's 
done  with  her." 

"How  is  Germany  going  to  manage  it?" 
"By  sending  ships  and  men  there,  of  course,"  he  re- 
plied, contemptuously. 

"And  how  will  Germany  manage  that?"  asked  the 
Admiral,  greatly  amused. 

"How !"  repeated  the  old  gentleman.  "How  does  any 
ship  go  anywhere?    By  crossing  the  sea,  of  course." 

"What  about  the  British  Navy  on  the  way?"  asked 
Claire. 

"Why — would  the  German  boats  go  near  the  British 
Navy  ?"  and  Uncle  Pista  was  surprised  and  disappointed. 
"Not   intentionally— but   they   might   find   the   British 
Navy  difficult  to  avoid,"  said  the  Admiral. 

"Then  they  wouldn't  avoid  it  at  all,"  said  Uncle  Pista, 
recovering  his  spirits.  "They  would  just  smash  it  up,  as. 
they're  smashing  up  the  English  in  Flanders  just  now, 
and  then  go  on,  and  they  would  be  in  Japan  in  a  few 
days." 

"Good  sailing !"  commented  the  Admiral. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  will  be  an  end  of  Japan  and  of  Eng-^ 


'l6  Some  Experiences  in  Hungary 

land,  too !  Willy  will  teach  them  the  lesson  they  need. 
How^glad  I  am  that  no  child  of  mine  ever  learned  Eng- 
lish !"  By  this  time  we  were  literally  roaring  with  laugh- 
ter, and  he  paused  in  surprise.  "What  are  you  all  laugh- 
ing at?  Am  I  not  right?"  He  had  forgotten  my 
nationality. 

"Quite,"  I  said,  hoping  he  would  continue.  But  Aunt 
Sharolta  looked  up  from  the  chest-protector  she  was 
sewing  and  said — 

"It  is  useless  for  you  to  talk  like  that,  Pista,  when  we 
are  being  annihilated  in  Galicia  and  Serbia.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  the  newspapers  are  very  encouraging,  but  those 
who  know  say  otherwise." 

^^  "Have  patience!  Have  patience,"  said  the  Admiral. 
"Trust  in  Willy.  And  mark  my  words,  to-morrow  we 
shall  hear  something  from  the  sea." 

(This  English  companion  to  a  royal  Hungarian  family 
continues  to  relate  her  experiences  until  the  spring  of 
191 5,  when,  despite  the  efiforts  of  her  kind  host  and  host- 
ess, she  escaped  from  the  War-cursed  country.  She  tells 
how  she  made  her  way  to  Switzerland,  via  Vienna  and 
Innsbruck,  and  arrived  safely  at  her  home  in  London.) 


"FORCED  TO  FIGHT"— THE  TALE  OF 
A  SCHLESWIG  DANE 

''What  My  Eyes  Witnessed  in  East  Prussia'^ 

Told  hy  Erich  Erichsen,  A  Soldier  in  the  German  Army 
Translated  from  the  Danish  by  Ingebord  Lund 

This  is  a  tragic  story  of  a  Dane  who  was  forced  to  fight  in  the 
German  Army.  He  was  mobilized  at  the  beginning  of  the  War 
and  forced  to  serve  on  the  Western  and  Eastern  fronts.  He 
wrote  the  first  revelations  of  life  in  the  German  trenches.  This 
is  the  first  authentic  account  of  how  Germany  makes  war  from 
the  lips  of  a  German  soldier.  After  being  wounded,  disfigured 
for  life,  and  a  cripple,  he  went  home  where  his  own  father 
and  mother  hardly  knew  him.  Twenty  editions  of  his  book 
have  appeared  in  Danish  but  for  obvious  reasons,  its  sale  in 
Germany  has  been  prohibited.  The  experiences  herein  related 
are  by  permission  of  his  American  publishers,  Robert  M. 
McBride  and  Company. 

*  I_STORY  OF  SUFFERING  ON  THE  RUSSIAN 
FRONT 

On  the  East  front  I  took  part  in  the  great  offensive 
against  the  Russians.  My  old  comrade  was  there  also; 
he  was  still  alive.  But  there  were  many  new  faces  in 
my  division.  The  bloody  days  before  Liege,  the  hor- 
rors of  the  fight  through  Belgium,  and  the  long  strife 
in  the  trenches  of  Flanders,  had  cost  many  men  their 
lives  or  their  reason.  .  .  . 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
in  the  original  sources. 

TT7 


Ii8  'Torccd  to  Fight" 

I  remember  how  Belgium  was  laid  waste.  But  to 
tell  the  truth,  things  were  much  the  same  in  East  Prus- 
sia. Before  the  invasion,  it  was  in  many  parts  a  mel- 
ancholy country.  But  it  looked  more  pitiable  than 
ever,  as  we  marched  through  it,  with  the  Russians  re- 
treating before  us.  Trampled  fields,  ploughed  up  by 
shells,  burnt  farms,  property  wantonly  injured  or  de- 
stroyed, towns  in  ruins  and  human  beings  in  despair, 
robbed  of  all  they  had,  their  happiness,  their  joy,  their 
future.  It  was  an  indescribable  scene  of  misery  and 
woe.  But  at  the  same  time  it  was  exceedingly  touch- 
ing to  see  how  the  greater  number  of  the  people  clung 
to  the  devastated  home,  whose  master  was  probably 
in  the  fighting  line,  if  he  were  not  already  killed.  The 
wretched  hovels  and  the  ruined  farms  still  sheltered 
human  creatures,  who  did  their  work  as  best  they 
could,  and  hid  themselves  from  the  night  and  the  rain 
in  some  cramped  space,  between  half-charred  boards 
and  ends  of  beams,  or  whatever  they  could  find  to  hand. 

It  was  misery.  It  was  poverty.  It  was  wretched- 
ness. But  it  was  home — the  one  fixed  point  in  their 
existence.  If  they  once  forsook  that,  they  were  ex- 
posed to  the  merciless  uncertainty  of  life.  So  they 
clung  to  it  obstinately  and  faithfully  in  spite  of  all 
they  had  to  bear  and  suffer,  both  when  the  Russians 
advanced,  and  when  they  retreated.  Among  their 
other  miseries  they  had  also  learnt  to  know  famine. 
When  the  Russians  advanced,  they  did  not  leave  much 
behind.  Many  a  time  these  people  begged  our  last 
slice  of  bread  from  us,  to  stay  the  worst  of  their 
hunger. 

We  gave  to  them  willingly.  I  felt  at  times,  that  their 
lot  was  far  worse  than  ours.  We  indeed  might  lose 
our  lives  in  many  different  ways,  and  we  also  knew 
what  it  was  to  be  hungry.    But  we  had  not  to  listen 


"Forced  to  Fighr  119 

to  our  children  crying  for  food,  or  see  our  tiny  infants 
sicken  and  die  because  there  was  no  milk  to  be  had 
and  the  mother's  breasts  were  empty. 

I  can  well  understand  why  wherever  we  came,  the 
people  greeted  us  as  their  deliverers. 

I  understand  their  joy  and  their  often  boundless 
gratitude  in  word  and  deed.  I  understand  why  the 
old  men  and  the  trembling  women  so  often  fell  upon 
our  necks  with  tears  of  joy. 

It  must  be  heart-breaking  to  see  the  plot  of  ground 
you  love  laid  waste  and  trampled  down,  without  be- 
ing able  to  do  anything  to  save  it.  It  must  be  still 
more  heart-breaking  to  see  the  home  that  you  have 
cherished  devoured  by  flames,  and  then,  on  dark  and 
stormy  nights,  taking  your  children  by  the  hand  or 
on  your  back,  and  followed  by  terror-stricken  women 
and  bewildered  old  people,  to  flee  from  that  home 
and  wander  along  toilsome  roads  to  uncertainty,  in 
company  with  hundreds  of  others  who  know  just  as 
little  where  to  go  for  help  or  safety. 

We  met  many  such  crowds  of  homeless  wayfarers 
on  our  march,  people  who  could  hardly  drag  them- 
selves along  for  hunger  and  cold  and  terror. 

There  were  miserable  carts  drawn  by  miserable, 
starved  horses  and  wretched  bits  of  furniture,  piled 
up  anyhow  in  haste  and  fear.  There  were  people 
huddled  together  under  the  lee  of  a  hedge  or  in  a 
wood,  or  sheltering  in  the  holes  they  had  dug  into 
banks  of  earth  or  dykes,  wrapped  in  rags,  starving  with 
cold  and  still  terror-stricken.  Men  gazing  towards 
the  homes  from  which  they  had  fled,  looking  in  be- 
wilderment and  despair  at  the  downtrodden  and  ruined 
country ;  women  lying  down  and  trying  to  warm  their 
little  ones  at  a  naked,  impoverished  breast,  or  groan- 
ing  in   misery   and  hopelessness   over   the   dying   eyes 


I20  "Forced  to  Fight" 

of  a  child ;  old  men  and  old  women  with  only  one 
wish  in  the  world — the  sum  and  substance  of  their 
prayers  from  hour  to  hour  being  that  God  would  take 
them  away  from  all  this  misery,  which  they  could 
not  in  the  least  comprehend  and  which  they  had  not 
strength  enough  to  bear. 

II_"WHAT  APPALLING  THINGS  THEY 
TOLD  US" 

And  what  appalling  things  they  told  us,  in  tremb- 
ling voices  and  shaking  with  sobs ! 

Not  only  their  homes,  their  domestic  animals  and 
their  furniture  had  been  harried  by  fire  and  sword — 
it  cannot  be  otherwise  in  war,  I  suppose,  for  it  has 
no  mercy. 

It  had  been  here  as  it  had  been  in  Belgium — the 
soldiers  were  intoxicated  with  savagery  and  the  lust 
of  destruction.  In  such  an  army  there  may  be  a 
thousand  scoundrels  amongst  a  hundred  thousand 
decent  men ;  but  scoundrels  create  new  scoundrels, 
drink  begets  coarseness,  and  coarseness  begets  vio- 
lence. Old  men  are  mocked  and  tortured,  women  out- 
raged without  mercy,  and  innocent  little  children  are 
made  to  suffer  without  pity.  Men  have  to  pay  for  their 
hate  and  their  defiance,  even  though  honest  and  jus- 
tifiable, with  military  retribution,  merely  because  one 
of  them  has  been  impudent.  He  has  stirred  up  and 
set  ablaze  passionate  instincts  that  no  one  can  quench. 

I  knew  what  might  happen — I  had  been  through  the 
whole  affair  in  Belgium.  I  knew  from  experience  all 
that  they  told  me,  and  a  great  deal  more.  .  .  .  But  I 
can  assure  you  now,  and  I  shall  dare  to  say  it  on  the 
day  I  have  to  stand  before  my  Eternal  Judge,  I  have 
never   of   my   own   impulse   harmed   any   civilian;   I 


*' Forced  to  Fight"  121 

have  no  murder  or  other  deed  of  shame  on  my  con- 
science. The  guilt  of  whatever  I  have  had  a  share 
in  doing  is  entirely  on  the  heads  of  those  who  could 
demand  it  of  me.  They  could  demand  of  me  that  I 
should  do  my  duty  and  whip  me  into  doing  it,  or 
shoot  me  if  I  refused.  I  had  long  since  sworn  loyalty 
to  the  colours.  That  oath  is  sacred,  like  any  other 
oath.  And  I  was  a  subject  of  the  country  I  served 
and  had  to  serve. 

That  being  so,  may  I  not  be  allowed  to  say  that 
while  I  was  appalled  at  what  I  now  saw,  I  was  at  the 
same  time  filled  with  a  certain  satisfaction.  It  ap- 
palled me  because  all  horror  appals,  yet  at  the  same 
time  there  was  a  certain  satisfaction  about  it,  because 
I  saw  in  it  a  just  retribution  for  all  that  we  had  done 
in  Belgium — a  mild  and  very  lenient  retribution,  by  the 
way. 

Don't  you  think  one  may  be  allov/ed  to  say  that 
without  being  stamped  as  cruel  and  merciless? 

There  is,  amongst  my  Russian  experiences,  an  in- 
cident which  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  cherish  with 
the  warmest  gratitude,  because  it  represents  to  me 
what  we  mortals  usually  call  Nemesis — that  is,  chas- 
tising justice,  or  whatever  name  you  prefer  to  give 
it. 

I  call  it  the  judgment  of  God  because  it  seemed  as 
if  there  was  a  leading  and  guiding  hand  in  it — a  hand 
that  struck  one  who  was  guilty  and  gave  atone- 
ment for  two  whose  lives  had  been  taken. 

The  rearguard  to  which  I  belonged — I  think  we 
were  only  a  couple  of  thousand  men — had  been  bil- 
leted for  a  day  in  a  fairly  large  village  not  far  from 
the  Russian  frontier.  It  was  one  of  the  first  places 
to  be  laid  waste.  There  were  not  many  farms  or 
houses  left  that  were  not  in  ruins.     The  cattle  had 


122  "Forced  to  Fight" 

been  taken  and  the  corn  trodden  down.  Many  homes 
were  quite  deserted,  and  no  one  knew  where  the  in- 
mates were.  Besides,  who  could  know  at  such  a 
time,  when  each  one  had  enough  to  do  to  save  himself 
and  those  belonging  to  him.  Perhaps  they  were  dead ; 
perhaps  terror  had  driven  them  to  madness;  perhaps 
they  had  dragged  themselves  along,  weary  to  death, 
in  the  train  of  the  fleeing  crowds  and  had  fallen  by  the 
wayside  in  a  ditch  or  at  the  edge  of  a  forest,  left 
behind  by  the  others  who  continued  their  insensate 
flight  and  took  heed  of  naught  but  themselves  and 
their  own  affairs. 

Perhaps  they  lay  by  the  roadside  gazing  towards 
the  home  that  was  now  a  ruin,  at  the  fires  blazing 
over  the  flat  country,  and  up  to  the  heavens  where  it 
seemed  to  them  that  everything  was  forgotten — mercy, 
goodness,  justice. 

Perhaps  they  murmured  a  prayer,  the  last,  the  very 
last,  and  then  lay  down  and  waited  for  what  Avas  to 
come — for  silent,  reconciling  death,  that  would  bring 
them  peace  and  alleviation  for  all  that  they  had  not 
been  able  to  endure  in  a  world  that  seemed  to  them 
to  have  been  quite  forsaken  by  God. 

I  know  that  old  men  were  found  with  their  hands 
folded  on  their  breasts  and  the  reconciling  peace  of 
death  on  their  wasted,  rigid  faces. 

I  know  that  young  women  were  found  with  their 
infants  pressed  close  to  their  bare  breasts,  as  if  trying 
to  give  them  their  last  warmth,  until  they  had  both 
gone  into  the  land  of  everlasting  peace,  slain  by  cold 
and  hunger  and  terror. 

Ill— STORY  OF  A  PRUSSIAN  MOTHER 

In  one  of  the  poorest  of  the  small  houses  in  the 


''Forced  to  Fight"  123 

village  lived  a  young  woman.  She  had  been  beautiful, 
as  women  in  villages  often  are,  a  radiant  figure  of 
health  and  strength,  with  the  perfume  and  sweetness 
of  the  fields  and  their  sunshine  on  her  lips  and  in  her 
eyes.  She  seemed  to  be  about  half-way  through  her 
twenties.  But  now  her  face  was  drawn  and  pale,  and 
she  dragged  herself  wearily  about  as  if  she  were  ill. 

I  remember  her  home  distinctly.  It  had  been  a  lit- 
tle six-windowed  thatched  house  near  the  end  of  the 
village.  Two  of  the  windows  belonged  to  a  room  with 
an  alcove  and  the  kitchen.  The  other  part  of  the 
house  had  been  allotted  to  the  cow,  the  pigs,  and  the 
hens. 

It  was  now  almost  in  ruins.  The  roof  was  gone, 
the  woodwork  charred,  and  the  walls  had  tumbled 
down  in  a  crumbling  heap  where  the  animals  had 
been.  Only  the  little  room  with  the  alcove  and  the 
kitchen  were  intact,  but  the  window-panes  were 
smashed,  the  door  battered  in,  and  rags  had  been  stuck 
in  here  and  there  as  a  slight  protection  against  wind 
and  weather. 

Behind  the  house  there  was  a  small,  down-trodden 
garden,  hedged  about  with  a  dyke  of  willows  and 
elders. 

On  the  day  when  the  Russians  entered  the  village 
they  ravaged  it  with  fire  and  sword  in  their  savage 
exultation.  It  was  said  that  many  of  them  were 
drunk.  However  that  may  have  been,  they  forced 
their  way  into  farmsteads  and  houses,  took  what  there 
was  of  cattle  and  fodder,  smashed  everything  to  bits 
here  and  set  on  fire  there,  and  did  not  deal  gently 
with  the  women  in  the  houses. 

The  little  house  at  the  end  of  the  village  was  also 
visited  by  a  soldier.  He  stormed  and  raged  and 
shouted  and  spared  nothing  of  the  little  that  could  be 


124  ^'Forced  to  Fighf 

spared.    Finally  he  threw  himself  upon  the  young  wife 

and  tried  to  take  her  by  force. 

Then  the  husband  rushed  upon  him  to  save  his 
wife's  honour.  He  did  not  succeed,  and  it  cost  him 
his  life.  He  fell  within  the  room,  killed  by  the  blow 
of  a  sword  on  his  head. 

The  soldier's  savagery  increased,  and  at  last  it 
completely  mastered  him.  He  kicked  the  young 
v/oman  till  she  was  nearly  beside  herself  with  terror, 
and  stabbed  her  little  boy,  who  was  lying  in  the  bed, 
with  a  bayonet  thrust. 

Then  only,  and  not  till  then,  was  he  satisfied  with 
his  achievements. 

The  poor  woman  buried  her  husband  and  child  the 
next  day  in  a  corner  of  the  garden  and  covered  the 
little  mound  with  flowers. 

There  was  no  one  who  could  have  helped  her  to 
give  them  Christian  burial.  It  then  became  clear  to 
everyone  that  she  had  lost  her  reason.  She  went  about 
muttering  continually,  with  a  remote  and  strange  look 
in  her  tearworn  eyes,  that  sometimes  looked  as  if  they 
were  blind.  She  would  often  sit  for  hours  on  the 
garden  dyke  beside  the  grave  of  her  husband  and 
child. 

It  was  extremely  sad  and  pathetic,  and  heart-rend- 
ing to  see  her  sitting  there,  sometimes  till  late  at  night, 
as  if  she  were  waiting  for  the  two  to  come  back. 

Sometimes  she  would  lie  down  on  the  grave,  press- 
ing one  cheek  against  the  ground,  and  she  would  lie 
a  long  time  like  that — sometimes  until  she  fell  asleep. 
If  anyone  asked  her  why  she  lay  there  she  stared  va- 
cantly with  a  pair  of  bewildered,  tear-bright  eyes  and 
answered  through  her  sobs  that  she  could  hear  her 
little  boy  crying  and  calling  to  her. 


"Forced  to  Fight"  125 

IV— "MY  LOVELY  LITTLE  BOY— THEY 
KILLED  HIM" 

Every  time  a  convoy  of  prisoners  passed  through 
the  village  she  was  seized  with  restlessness.  She  was 
eager  and  quick  in  her  movements  and  she  stood  star- 
ing intently  at  those  who  passed  by. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  were  looking  for  one  particular 
face  amongst  the  many  hundreds,  but  when  they  had 
passed  by  she  collapsed  again  and  dragged  herself 
back  to  the  house,  or  out  to  the  dyke  and  the  mound 
in  the  corner  of  the  garden. 

Towards  evening,  on  the  day  that  we  had  entered 
the  village,  I  was  standing  outside  her  house  with  one 
of  my  comrades.  She  was  going  about  that  evening 
moaning  as  she  had  never  moaned  before.  Her  hair 
was  hanging  in  matted  strands  about  her  face,  and 
her  clothes  were  nothing  but  torn  rags.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  had  torn  them  in  her  horror. 

All  the  time  she  went  on  murmuring,  between  her 
moans:  *'My  lovely  little  boy — my  lovely  little 
boy!  .  .  ." 

Now  and  then  she  clenched  one  hand  in  the  other 
or  struck  them  both  against  her  forehead. 

While  we  were  standing  by  looking  at  her  my  lieu- 
tenant came  up.  He  tried  to  soothe  her  and  patted 
her  shoulder,  but  every  time  he  touched  her  she  shud- 
dered and  seemed  to  shrink  in  sudden  terror. 

"My  poor  little  boy!"  she  moaned.  "They  killed 
him.  He  was  only  six  years  old  and  was  lying  in  his 
bed.  Tray  to  God,'  I  cried  to  him;  'pray  to  God.' 
I  was  lying  on  the  floor  by  his  bed  and  saw  him  fold 
his  hands  in  prayer,  while  he  gazed  at  me  in  terror. 

"But  he  who  was  standing  over  him  did  not  spare 
him.    He  stabbed  him  in  the  breast  with  his  bayonet, 


126  "Forced  to  Fight" 

and  he  kicked  me  along  the  floor.  My  husband  was 
lying  murdered  on  the  door-step;  his  face  was  red 
with  blood ;  his  forehead  was  cut  open." 

Her  words  came  in  rapid,  violent  gasps,  while  she 
pressed  her  hands  against  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  all 
the  horror  she  saw  before  her. 

**But  there  is  justice  in  the  world,"  she  screamed. 
"There  is  justice.  I  shall  find  him ;  I  shall  find  him ; 
I  shall  find  him !  .  .  ." 

Then  she  grew  a  little  calmer,  and  the  lieutenant 
and  I  stood  whispering  to  each  other  about  what  we 
had  just  seen  and  about  what  we  had  heard  about 
her. 

V— SHE  FINDS  AT  LAST  THE  MAN  WHO 
MURDERED 

Some  time  after  a  convoy  of  prisoners  passed  by. 
There  were  about  two  hundred  men. 

The  instant  the  young  woman  saw  the  prisoners  she 
rushed  out  on  the  road.  Meanwhile  my  captain  had 
come  up,  too.  He  stood  by  her  side  and  closely 
watched  her  movements.  She  looked  like  an  animal 
ready  to  spring.  Every  muscle  was  tense,  every  nerve 
tightened,  and  meanwhile  her  eyes  scrutinized  the  pris- 
oners as  they  passed  by. 

There  was  a  strange,  penetrating  force  in  her  eyes. 
They  burned  like  live  coals.  They  flashed  like  ra- 
piers. 

Suddenly  she  rushed  out  and  almost  threw  herself 
upon  one  of  the  prisoners  in  the  convoy.  It  stopped, 
and  as  she  clenched  her  hands  threateningly  in  the 
air  she  screamed  in  mingled  exultation  and  agony: 
"It's  he !    It's  he !    I  knew  I  should  find  him !" 


''Forced  to  Fight"  127 

At  first  the  captive  soldier  stared  at  her  in  sur- 
prise. Suddenly  a  wave  of  deep  red  sufTused  his  face, 
and  then  he  turned  ashy  grey  and  bent  his  head.  It 
looked  as  if  he  were  slowly  sinking  on  his^  knees. 

The  young  woman  went  on  crying:  "It's  he!  It's 
he  !    I  knew  I  should  find  him !" 

At  last  she  laughed  wildly,  a  laugh  that  was  more 
like  a  mad  shriek,  and  then  collapsed  on  the  roadside 
while  the  froth  oozed  through  her  tightly-closed  lips. 

VI— THE  GUILTY  MAN— AND  JUSTICE 

My  friend  ceased  speaking  for  a  moment,  and  I 
felt  a  prickling  and  tingling  all  over  me.  It  was 
emotion  and  uneasiness  both  in  one. 

I  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  had  suddenly  become 
bright  and  clear,  and  there  was  a  smile  about  his  nar- 
row lips  of  mingled  sadness  and  joy. 

I  will  not  tell  you  anything  more  about  it.  I  will 
not  go  further  into  what  happened.  I  will  only  add 
that  half  an  hour  later  that  man  was  no  longer  among 
the  living. 

We  shot  him. 

Was  it  honourable  and  just?  Is  it  never  permis- 
sible  to  shoot  a  prisoner?  Perhaps— perhaps  not.  I 
don't  wish  to  dispute  about  it  with  anybody.  In  this  case 
that  question  does  not  interest  me  in  the  least.  I  don  t 
care  whether  it  was  lawful  or  not. 

I  will  only  honestly  and  openly  declare  that  to  me 
this  little  incident  stands  out,  amongst  all  the  appall- 
ing things  I  saw,  as  something  infinitely  beautiful  and 

exalted. 

I  felt  that  at  that  moment  I  had  seen  cold,  stern 

Justice  face  to  face. 


128  "Forced  to  Fighr 

VII— STORY  OF  A  GERMAN  SOLDIER'S 
HOME-COMING 

The  day  I  went  home  was  terribly  long.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  my  journey  would  never  come  to  an 
end.  .  .  . 

I  was  so  deeply  stirred  that  I  could  have  wept.  My 
lips  quivered  and  my  breast  was  as  empty  as  if  all  the 
air  had  been  pumped  out  of  my  lungs. 

As  the  train  glided  into  the  small  station  I  pulled 
down  the  window  and  looked  out. 

It  was  all  so  joyously  familiar.  The  name  with  the 
foreign,  snarling  sound.  The  station-master,  erect  and 
stiff,  like  the  old  non-commissioned  officer  with  a  big 
German  beard  that  he  was.  The  flowers  on  the  win- 
dow-sills of  the  station-house.  The  faces  of  the  sta- 
tion-master's wife  and  children  against  the  window- 
panes.  The  smell  of  asphalte  from  the  sun-baked  plat- 
form. 

And  over  there — why,  that  was  my  father,  my  dear, 
dear  old  father !  He  seemed  to  me  to  have  aged  a 
good  deal.  His  broad  back,  which  before  had  been  so 
straight  and  so  proudly  erect,  was  bent  and  tired ;  and 
his  face  looked  worn  as  if  after  a  long  illness. 

His  glance  went  down  the  train  from  carriage  to 
carriage.    I  waved  my  hand  to  him  and  called  out : 

"Father!" 

He  turned  at  the  sound  and  stared  at  me  a  moment. 

At  first  a  startled  look  seemed  to  pass  over  his  face. 
A  sudden  wonder,  as  when  you  see  something  you 
have  not  expected,  and  then  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
tottered  backwards  a  step  or  two  when  he  understood 
who  it  was  that  had  called.  He  bent  his  head  and 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

I  think  he  was  weeping. 


"Forced  to  Fight"  129 

Then  I  jumped  out  of  the  carriage,  and  the  next  in- 
stant I  was  beside  him. 

VIII— "MY  FATHER  THANKED  GOD" 

He  threw  his  arms  round  my  neck  and  kissed  me 
fervently  on  both  cheeks  as  he  whispered  in  a  tremb- 
ling voice:  .    ,     -.nr  1 

^'Oh,  thank  God  we've  got  you  back  agam !  Wel- 
come home,  my  dear  boy  —  welcome  —  welcome ! 
Thanks  be  to  God  from  your  mother  and  me  and  all 
of  us!     O  my   God,  my   God!— it  has  been  a  hard 

time!"  ^   .  ^         ^ 

He  shook  me  as  you  shake  a  friend  m  exuberant 
joy.  And  then  he  took  my  arm.  "Why,  I  could  not 
recognize  you  at  first,"  he  said  with  a  little  smile. 
"You  have  changed — somewhat.  .  .  .  But  on  the 
whole  vou  are  looking  quite  well." 

"Yes',  am  I  not?"  I  said.  "Quite  well— I  thmk  so 
myself." 

I  smiled. 

I  remembered  that  that  was  what  they  always  said 

at  the  hospital.  ... 

Then  we  drove  along  the  road  to  my  home,  and  in 
thirsty  eagerness  my  mind  drank  in  all  the  old,  fa- 
miliar and  beautiful  luxuriance:  the  white  road  with 
the  perfume  of  the  poplars ;  the  hedges  with  the  wild 
roses;  the  white-washed,  thatched  farmsteads;  the 
bright,  summer  gleam  of  the  blue  fjord. 

It  was  all  just  the  same  as  when  I  left  home  nearly 
two  years  ago— so  it  seemed  to  me,  at  any  rate.  I 
could  not  see  any  change. 

My  father  had  sat  silent  awhile  and  had  now  and 
then  stolen  a  glance  at  me,  and  I  understood  why.  He 
had  to  feel  at  home  with  my  face  first  before  he  could 


130  *' Forced  to  Fight" 

feel  quite  at  home  with  myself.    He  was  never  at  any 

time  one  to  speak  much,  by  the  way. 

We  drove  past  one  of  the  big  farms.  The  house 
stood  close  up  to  the  road,  and  looked  so  peaceful,  so 
bathed  in  sunshine ;  and  the  blossoms  from  the  fruit 
trees  sprinkled  their  pure  white  snow  over  the  bright 
lawns. 

"The  farmer  in  there  fell  last  September,"  said  my 
father ;  "and  his  two  sons  are  also  gone.  There  are 
no  more  men  left  now  in  that  family.  .  .  . 

"The  husband  is  gone  over  there,  and  yonder  the 
son.  Both  sons  from  that  place  are  gone.  And  over 
there  they  have  lost  a  son-in-law — you  know,  the  one 
who  had  just  got  married.  At  the  farm  yonder  the 
husband  came  home  a  cripple  last  Christmas ;  and 
the  son  in  that  one  is  blind." 

His  hushed  and  mournful  words  spoke  of  nothing 
but  death  and  grief.  There  was  scarcely  a  farm  or 
a  house  the  door  of  which  was  not  marked  with  the 
cross  of  death,  or  in  which  mourning  or  disablement 
had  not  a  home.  .  .  . 

IX— "MY  FIANCEE— SHE  ONLY  WEPT" 

My  fiancee  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  yard. 
Her  face  had  not  the  same  bright  gentleness  as  before. 
About  her  features  and  on  her  lips  there  were  the 
same  sad  and  mournful  lines  that  I  had  seen  on  the 
faces  of  the  women  in  the  hospital.  She,  too,  was 
stamped  with  the  daily  silent  longing  and  uncertainty, 
the  nightly  dread  and  heart-ache. 

She  seemed  to  me  to  look  old.  And  she  was  not 
yet  twenty-two. 

She  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  almost  before 
I  had  reached  the  ground.     She  said  nothing.     She 


"Forced  to  Fight"  131 

only  cried,  clinging  closely  to  me  and  hiding  her  face 
on  my  shoulder. 

"Well,  you  can  recognise  him,  it  seems,"  said  my 
father.    "It  was  all  I  could  do — ^just  at  first.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  then  turned  to  my  father  as 
she  said: 

"I  knew  that  he  would  look  like  that — that  was  how 
I  always  saw  him.  In  my  thoughts  by  day  and  my 
dreams  at  night." 

Then  we  went  into  the  sitting-room. 

X— "MY  MOTHER— SHE  BROKE  DOWN  AND 
SOBBED" 

My  mother  was  standing  by  the  table.  She  was 
pale  and  there  was  a  frightened  and  despairing  look  in 
her  eyes. 

She  gazed  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if  in  terror.  Then 
she  sank  down  upon  a  chair  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"Is  that  my  boy — is  that  my  boy?  .  .  ." 

It  sounded  like  a  heart-broken  wailing.  I  saw  that 
she  was  sobbing.  I  perceived  that  my  face  had  fright- 
ened her ;  the  empty  sleeve  too. 

I  went  over  and  knelt  down  beside  her,  putting 
my  arm  round  her  waist  and  my  head  in  her  lap. 

I  had  always  done  that  as  a  boy  when  she  was 
grieved  about  anything. 

Then  I  felt  her  hand  gently,  stroking  my  head. 
How  soft  that  hand  was !  What  a  blissfulness  there 
was  in  that  quiet,  gentle  stroking! 

Is  there  anybody  who  knows  how  to  caress  like  a 
mother?  Is  there  anything  in  the  world  that  holds 
such  rapturous  joy?  .  .  . 

After  a  little  while  she  took  my  chin  in  her  hands 


132  "Forced  to  Fight" 

and  raised  my  head.  Our  eyes  met.  Hers  were  soft 
and  shining — a  fathomless  deep  of  love  to  gaze  into. 

Her  face  was  grey  and  there  was  a  quivering  about 
her  firmly-closed  lips.  But  I  could  see  that  she  was 
happy — silently,  speechlessly  happy. 

I  felt  her  lips  on  my  forehead.  It  was  like  a  great 
solemnity  to  me.    And  then  she  said  in  a  soft  whisper : 

*'My  own  big  boy — my  own  big  boy — thank  God 
for  ever  that  I  have  you  back  again !" 

A  sad  little  smile  passed  over  her  face,  and,  as  if 
she  felt  a  desire  to  say  something  showing  a  little  of 
her  warm-hearted  and  charming  humour,  she  added 
between  smiles  and  tears : 

"But  you  are  not  such  a  handsome  boy  as  when  you 
went  away." 

Then  she  broke  down  and  bent  her  face  over  mine. 

That  was  my  home-coming.  I  had  looked  forward 
to  it  and  it  had  given  me  all  the  happiness  I  could 
wish  for. 

(The  Danish  soldier  boy  tells  the  tragic  story  of  the 
"folk  back  home;"  how  mothers,  and  wives  and  chil- 
dren are  "waiting"  for  their  loved  ones.  His  whole 
story  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  and  loving  tales  of 
the  broken  hearts  of  the  war.) 


"ADVENTURES    OF    A    DESPATCH 
RIDER" 

An  Oxford  Man  With  the  Motorcyclists 
Told  by  Capt.    W.  H.  L.   Watson 

This  young  Oxford  student  at  the  outbreak  of  the  War  was 
in  London  to  begin  his  work  in  the  British  Museum.  "At  6:45 
P.M.,  on  Saturday,  July  25th,  1914,  Alec  and  I  determined  to 
take  part  in  the  Austro-Serbian  War.  I  remember  the  exact 
minute,"  he  says.  They  were  certain  Armageddon  was  coming. 
He  went  straight  to  Scotland  Yard  and  joined  the  Despatch 
Riders  with  several  of  his  fellow  students.  He  then  began  his 
daring  adventures  carrying  despatches  for  the  British  Army  in 
Northern  France.  He  rode  through  the  battle  of  Mons  and  in 
the  thrilling  pursuit  that  lead  to  the  Aisne.  His  experiences 
teem  with  exciting  incidents  of  those  never-to-be-forgotten  days. 
The  thriH  of  the  charge,  the  depression  of  retreat,  the  elation 
of  outwitting  a  clever  enemy  and  all  the  little  incidents  of  hero- 
ism, self-sacrifice  and  comradeship  that  have  become  common- 
places in  the  daily  lives  of  the  British  Tommies,  are  most  in- 
terestingly described  in  this  Oxford  man's  account  of  "Adven- 
tures of  a  Despatch  Rider"  by  permission  of  his  publishers, 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company. 

*  I— STORIES  OF  THE  SIGNAL  OFFICE  IN 
NORTHERN  FRANCE 

It  had  been  a  melancholy  day,  full  of  rain  and  doubt- 
ing nev/s.  Those  of  us  who  were  not  "out"  were  strolling 
up  and  down  the  platform  arranging  the  order  of  cakes 
from  home  and  trying  to  gather  from  the  sound  of  the 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  told  herein — not  to  chapters 
in  the  book. 

133 


134  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider" 

gunning  and  intermittent  visits  to  the  Signal  Office  what 
was  happening. 

Some  one  had  been  told  that  the  old  15th  was  being 
hard  pressed.  Each  of  us  regretted  loudly  that  we  had 
not  been  attached  to  it,  though  our  hearts  spoke  differ- 
ently. Despatch  riders  have  muddled  thoughts.  There 
is  a  longing  for  the  excitement  of  danger  and  a  very 
earnest  desire  to  keep  away  from  it. 

The  CO.  walked  on  to  the  platform  hurriedly,  and  in 
a  minute  or  two  I  was  off.  It  was  lucky  that  the  road 
was  covered  with  unholy  grease,  that  the  light  was  bad 
and  there  was  transport  on  the  road — for  it  is  not  good 
for  a  despatch  rider  to  think  too  much  of  what  is  before 
him.  My  instructions  were  to  report  to  the  general  and 
make  myself  useful.  I  was  also  cheerfully  informed 
that  the  H.Q.  of  the  15th  were  under  a  robust  shell-fire. 
Little  parties  of  sad-looking  wounded  that  I  passed,  the 
noise  of  the  guns,  and  the  evil  dusk  heartened  me. 

I  rode  into  Festubert,  which  was  full  of  noise,  and, 
very  hastily  dismounting,  put  my  motorcycle  under  the 
cover  of  an  arch  and  reported  to  the  general.  He  was 
sitting  at  a  table  in  the  stuffy  room  of  a  particularly  dirty 
tavern.  At  the  far  end  a  fat  and  frightened  woman  was 
crooning  to  her  child.  Beside  her  sat  a  wrinkled,  leathery 
old  man  with  bandaged  head.  He  had  wandered  into 
the  street,  and  he  had  been  cut  about  by  shrapnel.  The 
few  wits  he  had  ever  possessed  were  gone,  and  he  gave 
every  few  seconds  little  croaks  of  hate.  Three  telephone 
operators  were  working  with  strained  faces  at  their  high- 
est speed.  The  windows  had  been  smashed  by  shrapnel, 
and  bits  of  glass  and  things  crunched  under  foot.  The 
room  was  full  of  noises — the  crackle  of  the  telephones, 
the  crooning  of  the  woman,  the  croak  of  the  wounded  old 
man,  the  clear  and  incisive  tones  of  the  general  and  his 
brigade-major,  the  rattle  of  not  too  distant  rifles,  the 


''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  135 

booming  of  guns  and  occasionally  the  terrific,  overwhelm- 
ing crash  of  a  shell  bursting  in  the  village. 

I  was  given  a  glass  of  wine.  Cadell,  the  Brigade  Sig- 
nal Officer,  and  the  Veterinary  Officer,  came  up  to  me 
and  talked  cheerfully  in  whispered  tones  about  our 
friends. 

There  was  the  sharp  cry  of  shrapnel  in  the  street  and 
the  sudden  rattle  against  the  whole  house.  The  woman 
and  child  fled  somewhere  through  a  door,  followed  feebly 
by  the  old  man.  The  brigade-major  persuaded  the  gen- 
eral to  work  in  some  less  unhealthy  place.  The  telephone 
operators  moved,  A  moment's  delay  as  the  general  en- 
deavored to  persuade  the  brigade-major  to  go  first,  and 
we  found  ourselves  under  a  stalwart  arch  that  led  into 
the  courtyard  of  the  tavern.  We  lit  pipes  and  cigarettes. 
The  crashes  of  bursting  shells  grew  more  frequent,  and 
the  general  remarked  in  a  dry  and  injured  tone — 
.  "Their  usual  little  evening  shoot  before  putting  up  the 
shutters,  I  suppose." 

II— 'T  AM  WRITING  UNDER  SHRAPNEL  FIRE" 

But  first  the  Germans  ''searched"  the  village.  Now 
to  search  a  village  means  to  start  at  one  end  of  the  vil- 
lage and  place  shells  at  discreet  intervals  until  the  other 
end  of  the  village  is  reached.  It  is  an  unpleasant  process 
for  those  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  even  though  they 
be  standing,  as  we  were,  in  comparatively  good  shelter. 

We  heard  the  Germans  start  at  the  other  end  of  the  vil- 
lage street.  The  crashes  came  nearer  and  nearer,  until 
a  shell  burst  with  a  scream  and  a  thunderous  roar  just 
on  our  right.  We  puffed  away  at  our  cigarettes  for  a 
second,  and  a  certain  despatch  rider  wished  he  were  any- 
where but  in  the  cursed  village  of  Festubert  by  Bethune. 
There  was  another  scream  and  overwhelming  relief.    The 


136  ^'Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider" 

next  shell  burst  three  houses  away  on  our  left.  I  knocked 
my  pipe  out  and  filled  another. 

The  Germans  finished  their  little  evening  shoot.  We 
marched  back  very  slowly  in  the  darkness  to  1910  Farm. 

This  farm  was  neither  savoury  nor  safe.  It  was  built 
round  a  courtyard  which  consisted  of  a  gigantic  hole 
crammed  with  manure  in  all  stages  of  unpleasant  putre- 
faction. One  side  is  a  barn;  two  sides  consist  of  stables, 
and  the  third  is  the  house  inhabited  not  only  by  us  but 
by  an  incredibly  filthy  and  stinking  old  woman  who  was 
continually  troubling  the  general  because  some  months 
ago  a  French  cuirassier  took  one  of  her  chickens.  The 
day  after  we  arrived  at  this  farm  I  had  few  despatches 
to  take,  so  I  wrote  to  Robert.  Here  is  some  of  the  letter 
and  bits  of  other  letters  I  wrote  during  the  following 
days.    They  will  give  you  an  idea  of  our  state  of  mind : 

If  you  v/ant  something  of  the  dramatic — I  am  writing 
in  a  farm  under  shrapnel  fire,  smoking  a  pipe  that  was 
broken  by  a  shell.  For  true  effect  I  suppose  I  should 
not  tell  you  that  the  shrapnel  is  bursting  about  fifty  yards 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  that  I  am  in  a  room  lying 
on  the  floor,  and  consequently  that,  so  long  as  they  go 
on  firing  shrapnel,  I  am  perfectly  safe. 

It's  the  dismallest  of  places.  Two  miles  farther  back 
the  heavies  are  banging  away  over  our  heads.  There  are 
a  couple  of  batteries  near  the  farm.  Two  miles  along  the 
road  the  four  battalions  of  our  brigade  are  holding  on  for 
dear  life  in  their  trenches. 

The  country  is  open  plough,  with  little  clumps  of  trees, 
sparse  hedges,  and  isolated  cottages  giving  a  precarious 
cover.  It's  all  very  damp  and  miserable,  for  it  was  rain- 
ing hard  last  night  and  the  day  before. 

I  am  in  a  little  bare  room  with  the  floor  covered  with 
straw.  Two  telegraph  operators  are  making  that  in- 
fernal jerky  clicking  sound  I  have  begun  so  to  hate. 


"Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider'*  137 

Half  a  dozen  men  of  the  signal  staff  are  lying  about  the 
floor  looking  at  week-old  papers.  In  the  next  room  I  can 
hear  the  general,  seated  at  a  table  and  intent  on  his  map, 
talking  to  an  officer  that  has  just  come  from  the  firing 
line.  Outside  the  window  a  gun  is  making  a  fiendish 
row,  shaking  the  whole  house.  Occasionaly  there  is  a 
bit  of  a  rattle — that's  shrapnel  bullets  falling  on  the  tiles 
of  an  outhouse. 

If  you  came  out  you  might  probably  find  this  exhilarat- 
ing. I  have  just  had  a  talk  with  our  mutual  friend  Ca- 
dell,  the  Signal  Officer  of  this  brigade,  and  we  have  de- 
cided that  we  are  fed  up  with  it.  For  one  thing — after 
two  months*  experience  of  shell  fire  the  sound  of  a  shell 
bursting  within  measurable  distance  makes  you  start  and 
shiver  for  a  moment — reflex  action  of  the  nerves.  That 
is  annoying.  We  both  decided  we  would  willingly  change 
places  with  you  and  take  a  turn  at  defending  your  doubt- 
less excellently  executed  trenches  at  Liberton. 

The  line  to  the *  has  just  gone.  It's  almost  cer- 
tain death  to  relay  it  in  the  daytime.  Cadell  and  his 
men  are  discussing  the  chances  while  somebody  else  has 
started  a  musical-box.  A  man  has  gone  out;  I  wonder 
if  he  will  come  back.  The  rest  of  the  men  have  gone  to 
sleep  again.  That  gun  outside  the  window  is  getting 
on  my  nerves.    Well,  vv^ell ! 

The  shrapnel  fire  appears  to  have  stopped  for  the  pres- 
ent. No,  there's  a  couple  together.  If  they  fire  over  this 
farm  I  hope  they  don't  send  me  back  to  D.H.Q. 

Do  you  know  what  I  long  for  more  than  anything  else  ? 
A  clean,  unhurried  breakfast  with  spotless  napery  and 
shining  silver  and  porridge  and  kippers.  I  don't  think 
these  long,  lazy  after-breakfast  hours  at  Oxford  were 
wasted.    They  are  a  memory  and  a  hope  out  here.    The 


♦Dorsets,  I  think. 


138  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider" 

shrapnel  is  getting  nearer  and  more  frequent.  We  are 
all  hoping  it  will  kill  some  chickens  in  the  courtyard. 
The  laws  against  looting  are  so  strict. 

What  an  excellent  musical-box,  playing  quite  a  good 
imitation  of  Cavalleria  Rtisticana.  I  guess  we  shall  have 
to  move  soon.  Too  many  shells.  Too  dark  to  write  any 
more 

III— HOW  IT  FEELS  TO  BE  SHELLED 

After  all,  quite  the  most  important  things  out  here  are 
a  fine  meal  and  a  good  bath.  If  you  consider  the  vast 
area  of  the  war  the  facts  that  we  have  lost  two  guns  or 
advanced  five  miles  are  of  very  little  importance.  War, 
making  one  realize  the  hopeless  insignificance  of  the  in- 
dividual, creates  in  one  such  an  immense  regard  for  self, 
that  so  long  as  one  does  well  it  matters  little  if  four  of- 
ficers have  been  killed  reconnoitering  or  some  wounded 
have  had  to  be  left  under  an  abandoned  gun  all  night.  I 
started  with  an  immense  interest  in  tactics.  This  has 
nearly  all  left  me  and  I  remain  a  more  or  less  efficient 
despatch-carrying  animal — a  part  of  a  machine  realizing 
the  hopeless,  enormous  size  of  the  machine. 

The  infantry  officer  after  two  months  of  modern  war 
is  a  curious  phenomenon.*  He  is  probably  one  of  three 
survivors  of  an  original  twenty-eight.  He  is  not  fright- 
ened of  being  killed ;  he  has  forgotten  to  think  about  it. 
But  there  is  a  sort  of  reflex  fright.  He  becomes  either 
cautious  and  liable  to  sudden  panics,  or  very  rash  indeed, 
or  absolutely  mechanical  in  his  actions.  The  first  state 
means  the  approach  of  a  nervous  breakdown,  the  second 
a  near  death.  There  are  very  few,  indeed,  who  retain 
a  nervous  balance  and  a  calm  judgment.    And  all  have 


*  I  do  not  say  this  paraerraph  is  trne.     It  is  what  I  thought 
on  15th  October,  1014.     The  weather  was  depressing. 


*' Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider''  139 

a  harsh,  frightened  voice.  If  you  came  suddenly  out  here, 
you  would  think  they  were  all  mortally  afraid.  But  it 
is  only  giving  orders  for  hours  together  under  a  heavy 
fire. 

Battle  noises  are  terrific.  At  the  present  moment  a 
howitzer  is  going  strong  behind  this,  and  the  concussion 
is  tremendous.  The  noise  is  like  dropping  a  traction-en- 
gine on  a  huge  tin  tray.  A  shell  passing  away  from  you 
over  your  head  is  like  the  loud  crackling  of  a  newspaper 
close  to  your  ear.  It  makes  a  sort  of  deep  reverber- 
ating crackle  in  the  air,  gradually  lessening,  until  there 
is  a  dull  boom,  and  a  mile  or  so  away  you  see  a  thick 
little  cloud  of  white  smoke  in  the  air  or  a  pear-shaped 
cloud  of  grey-black  smoke  on  the  ground.  Coming  to- 
wards you  a  shell  makes  a  cutting,  swishing  note,  grad- 
ually getting  higher  and  higher,  louder  and  louder.  There 
is  a  longer  note  one  instant  and  then  it  ceases.  Shrapnel 
bursting  close  to  you  has  the  worst  sound. 

It  is  almost  funny  in  a  village  that  is  being  shelled. 
Things  simply  disappear.  You  are  standing  in  an  arch- 
way a  little  back  from  the  road — a  shriek  of  shrapnel. 
The  windows  are  broken  and  the  tiles  rush  clattering  into 
the  street,  while  little  bullets  and  bits  of  shell  jump  like 
red-hot  devils  from  side  to  side  of  the  street,  ricochetting 
until  their  force  is  spent.  Or  a  deeper  bang,  a  crash,  and 
a  whole  house  tumbles  down. 

%-hour  later. — Curious  life  this.  Just  after  I  had 
finished  the  last  sentence,  I  was  called  out  to  take  a 
message  to  a  battery  telling  them  to  shell  a  certain  village. 
Here  am  I  wandering  out,  taking  orders  for  the  complete 
destruction  of  a  village  and  probably  for  the  death  of  a 
couple  of  hundred  men  *  without  a  thought,  except  that 
the  roads  are  very  greasy  and  that  lunch  time  is  near. 


Optimist  1 


I40  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider'' 

Again,  yesterday,  I  put  our  Heavies  in  action,  and  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  fine  old  church,  with  what  ap- 
peared from  the  distance  a  magnificent  tower,  was  noth- 
ing but  a  grotesque  heap  of  ruins.  The  Germans  were 
loopholing  it  for  defence. 

Oh,  the  waste,  the  utter  damnable  waste  of  everything 
out  here — men,  horses,  buildings,  cars,  everything.  Those 
who  talk  about  war  being  a  salutary  discipline  are  those 
who  remain  at  home.  In  a  modern  war  there  is  little 
room  for  picturesque  gallantry  or  picture-book  heroism. 
We  are  all  either  animals  or  machines,  with  little  gained 
except  our  emotions  dulled  and  brutalized  and  nightmare 
flashes  of  scenes  that  cannot  be  written  about  because  they 
are  unbelievable.  I  wonder  what  difference  you  will 
find  in  us  when  we  come  home 

IV— A  NIGHT  SCARE  AT  THE  FRONT 

Do  you  know  what  a  night  scare  is?  In  our  last  H.Q. 
we  were  all  dining  when  suddenly  there  was  a  terrific 
outburst  of  rifle  fire  from  our  lines.  We  went  out  into 
the  road  that  passes  the  farm  and  stood  there  in  the  pitch 
darkness,  wondering.  The  fire  increased  in  intensity 
until  every  soldier  within  five  miles  seemed  to  be  revel- 
ling in  a  lunatic  succession  of  "mad  minutes."  Was  it  a 
heavy  attack  on  our  lines?  Soon  pom-poms  joined  in 
sharp,  heavy  taps — and  machine  guns.  The  lines  to  the 
battalions  were  at  the  moment  working  feebly,  and  what 
the  operators  could  get  through  was  scarcely  intelligible. 
Ammunition  limbers  were  hurried  up,  and  I  stood  ready 
to  dart  anywhere.  For  twenty  minutes  the  rifle-fire 
seemed  to  grow  wilder  and  wilder.  At  last  stretcher-bear- 
ers came  in  with  a  few  wounded  and  reported  that  we 
seemed  to  be  holding  our  own.  Satisfactory  so  far. 
Then  there  were  great  flashes  of  shrapnel  over  our  lines ; 


^'Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  141 

that  comforted  us,  for  if  your  troops  are  advancing  you 
don't  fire  shrapnel  over  the  enemy's  Hues.  You  never 
know  how  soon  they  may  be  yours.  The  firing  soon  died 
down  until  we  heard  nothing  but  little  desultory  bursts. 
Finally  an  orderly  came — the  Germans  had  half-heart- 
edly charged  our  trenches  but  had  been  driven  off  with 
loss.  We  returned  to  the  farm  and  found  that  in  the  few 
minutes  we  had  been  outside  everything  had  been  packed 
and  half-frightened  men  were  standing  about  for  or- 
ders. 

The  explanation  of  it  all  came  later  and  was  simple 
enough.  The  French,  without  letting  us  know,  had  at- 
tacked the  Germans  on  our  right,  and  the  Germans  to 
keep  us  engaged  had  m.ade  a  feint  attack  upon  us.  So 
we  went  back  to  dinner. 

In  modern  war  the  infantryman  hasn't  much  of  a 
chance.  Strategy  nowadays  consists  in  arranging  for  the 
mutual  slaughter  of  infantry  by  the  opposing  guns,  each 
general  trusting  that  his  guns  will  do  the  greater  slaugh- 
ter. And  half  gunnery  is  luck.  The  day  before  yester- 
day we  had  a  little  afternoon  shoot  at  where  we  thought 
the  German  trenches  might  be.  The  Germans  unac- 
countably retreated,  and  yesterday  when  we  advanced 
we  found  the  trenches  crammed  full  of  dead.  By  a  com- 
bination of  intelligent  anticipation  and  good  luck  we  had 
hit  them  exactly 

From  these  letters  you  will  be  able  to  gather  what  mood 
we  were  in  and  something  of  what  the  brigade  despatch 
rider  was  doing.  After  the  first  day  the  Germans  ceased 
shrapnelling  the  fields  round  the  farm  and  left  us  nearly 
in  peace.  There  I  met  Major  Ballard,  commanding  the 
15th  Artillery  Brigade,  one  of  the  finest  officers  of  my 
acquaintance,  and  Captain  Frost,  the  sole  remaining  offi- 
cer of  the  Cheshires.  He  was  charming  to  me ;  I  was 
particularly  grateful  for  the  loan  of  a  razor,  for  my  own 


142  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Ride/* 

had  disappeared  and  there  were  no  despatch  riders  handy 
from  whom  I  could  borrow. 

Talking  of  the  Cheshires  reminds  me  of  a  story  illus- 
trating the  troubles  of  a  brigadier.  The  general  was  din- 
ing calmly  one  night  after  having  arranged  an  attack. 
All  orders  had  been  sent  out.  Everything  was  complete 
and  ready.    Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and 

in  walked  Captain  M ,  who  reported  his  arrival 

with  200  reinforcements  for  the  Cheshires,  a  pleasant  but 
irritating  addition.  The  situation  was  further  compli- 
cated by  the  general's  discovery  that  M was  senior 

to  the  officer  then  in  command  of  the  Cheshires.     Poor 

M was  not  left  long  in  command.     A  fortnight 

later  the  Germans  broke  through  and  over  the  Cheshires, 
and  M died  where  a  commanding  officer  should. 

V— "I  WAS  SENT  A  MESSAGE" 

From  191  o  Farm  I  had  one  good  ride  to  the  battalions, 
through  Festubert  and  along  to  the  Cuinchy  Bridge. 
For  me  it  was  interesting  because  it  was  one  of  the  few 
times  I  had  ridden  just  behind  the  trenches,  which  at 
the  moment  were  just  north  of  the  road  and  were  occu- 
pied by  the  Bedfords. 

In  a  day  or  two  we  returned  to  Festubert,  and  Cadell 
gave  me  a  shake-down  on  a  mattress  in  his  billet — glor- 
iously comfortable.  The  room  was  a  little  draughty  be- 
cause the  fuse  of  a  shrapnel  had  gone  right  through  the 
door  and  the  fireplace  opposite.  Exceot  for  a  oeDoerine: 
on  the  walls  and  some  broken  glass  the  house  was  not 
damaged ;  we  almost  laughed  at  the  father  and  mother 
and  daughter  who,  returning  while  we  were  there,  wept 
because  their  home  had  been  touched. 

Orders  came  to  attack.  A  beautiful  plan  was  drawn 
up  by  which  the  battalions  of  the  brigade  were  to  finish 


"Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  >i43 

their    victorious    career    in    the    square    of    La    Bassee. 

In  connection  with  this  attack  I  was  sent  with  a  mes- 
sage for  the  Devons.  It  was  the  blackest  of  black  nights 
and  I  was  riding  without  a  light.  Twice  I  ran  into  the 
ditch,  and  finally  I  piled  up  myself  and  my  bicycle  on  a 
heap  of  stones  lying  by  the  side  of  the  road.  I  did  not 
damage  my  bicycle.  That  was  enough.  I  left  it  and 
walked. 

When  I  got  to  Cuinchy  bridge  I  found  that  the  Devon 
headquarters  had  shifted.  Beyond  that  the  sentry  knew 
nothing.  Luckily  I  met  a  Devon  officer  who  was  bringing 
up  ammunition.  We  searched  the  surrounding  cottages 
for  men  with  knowledge,  and  at  last  discovered  that  the 
Devons  had  moved  farther  along  the  canal  in  the  direc- 
tion of  La  Bassee.  So  we  set  out  along  the  towpath, 
past  a  house  that  was  burning  fiercely  enough  to  make 
us  conspicuous. 

We  felt  our  way  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  stopped, 
because  we  were  getting  near  the  Germans.  Indeed  we 
could  hear  the  rumble  of  their  transport  crossing  the  La 
Bassee  bridge.  We  turned  back,  and  a  few  yards  nearer 
home  some  one  coughed  high  up  the  bank  on  our  right. 
We  found  the  cough  to  be  a  sentry,  and  behind  the  sentry 
were  the  Devons. 

The  attack,  as  you  know,  was  held  up  on  the  line 
Cuinchy-Givenchy-Violaines ;  we  advanced  our  head- 
quarters to  a  house  just  opposite  the  inn  by  which  the 
road  to  Givenchy  turns  off.  It  was  not  very  safe,  but 
the  only  shell  that  burst  anywhere  near  the  house  itself 
did  nothing  but  wound  a  little  girl  in  the  leg. 

On  the  previous  day  I  had  ridden  to  Violaines  at  dawn 
to  draw  a  plan  of  the  Cheshires*  trenches  for  the  gen- 
eral. I  strolled  out  by  the  sugar  factory,  and  had  a  good 
look  at  the  red  houses  of  La  Bassee.  Half  an  hour  later 
a  patrol  went  out  to  explore  the  sugar  factory.     They 


144  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider" 

did  not  return.  It  seems  that  the  factory  was  full  of 
machine  guns.  I  had  not  been  fired  upon,  because  the 
Germans  did  not  wish  to  give  their  position  away  sooner 
than  was  necessary. 

A  day  or  two  later  I  had  the  happiness  of  avenging 
my  potential  death.  First  I  took  orders  to  a  battery  of 
6-inch  howitzers  at  the  Rue  de  Marais  to  knock  the  fac- 
tory to  pieces,  then  I  carried  an  observing  officer  to  some 
haystacks  by  Violaines,  from  which  he  could  get  a  good 
view  of  the  factory.  Finally  I  watched  with  supreme 
satisfaction  the  demolition  of  the  factory,  and  with  re- 
gretful joy  the  slaughter  of  the  few  Germans  who,  es- 
caping, scuttled  for  shelter  in  some  trenches  just  behind 
and  on  either  side  of  the  factory. 

VI— HOW  THE  GERMANS  BROKE  THROUGH 

I  left  the  15th  Brigade  with  regret,  and  the  regret  I 
felt  would  have  been  deeper  if  I  had  known  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  the  brigade.  I  was  given  interesting 
work  and  made  comfortable.  No  despatch  rider  could 
wish  for  more. 

Not  long  after  I  had  returned  from  the  15th  Brigade, 
the  Germans  attacked  and  broke  through.  They  had  been 
heavily  reinforced  and  our  tentative  offensive  had  been 
replaced  by  a  stern  and  anxious  defensive. 

Now  the  Signal  Office  was  established  in  the  booking- 
office  of  Beuvry  Station.  The  little  narrow  room  was 
packed  full  of  operators  and  vibrant  with  buzz  and  click. 
The  Signal  Clerk  sat  at  a  table  in  a  tiny  room  just  off  the 
booking-office.  Orderlies  would  rush  in  with  messages, 
and  the  Clerk  would  instantly  decide  whether  to  send 
them  by  wire,  by  push-cyclist,  or  by  despatch  rider. 
Again,  he  dealt  with  all  messages  that  came  in  over  the 
wire.     Copies  of  these  messages  were  filed.     This  was 


''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  145 

our  tape ;  from  them  we  learned  the  news.  We  were  not 
supposed  to  read  them,  but,  as  we  often  found  that  they 
contained  information  which  was  invaluable  to  despatch 
riders,  we  always  looked  through  them  and  each  passed 
on  what  he  had  found  to  the  others.  The  Signal  Clerk 
might  not  know  where  a  certain  unit  was  at  a  given  mo- 
ment. We  knew,  because  we  had  put  together  informa- 
tion that  we  had  gathered  in  the  course  of  our  rides  and 
inform.ation  which — though  the  Clerk  might  think  it  un- 
important— supplemented  or  completed  or  verified  what 
we  had  already  obtained. 

So  the  history  of  this  partially  successful  attack  was 
known  to  us.  Every  few  minutes  one  of  us  went  into  the 
Signal  Office  and  read  the  messages.  When  the  order 
came  for  us  to  pack  up,  we  had  already  made  our  prepa- 
rations, for  Divisional  Headquarters,  the  brain  controlling 
the  actions  of  seventeen  thousand  men,  must  never  be 
left  in  a  position  of  danger.  And  wounded  were  pour- 
ing into  the  Field  Ambulances. 

The  enemy  had  made  a  violent  attack,  preluded  by 
heavy  shelling,  on  the  left  of  the  15th,  and  what  I  think 
was  a  holding  attack  on  the  right.  Violaines  had  been 
stormed,  and  the  Cheshires  had  been  driven,  still  grimly 
fighting,  to  beyond  the  Rue  de  Marais.  The  Norfolks 
on  their  right  and  the  K.O.S.B.'s  on  their  left  had  been 
compelled  to  draw  back  their  line  with  heavy  loss,  for 
their  flanks  had  been  uncovered  by  the  retreat  of  the 
Cheshires. 

The  Germans  stopped  a  moment  to  consolidate  their 
gains.  This  gave  us  time  to  throw  a  couple  of  battalions 
against  them.  After  desperate  fighting  Rue  de  Marais 
was  retaken  and  some  sort  of  line  established.  What 
was  left  of  the  Cheshires  gradually  rallied  in  Festubert. 

This  German  success,  together  with  a  later  success 
against  the  3rd  Division,  that  resulted  in  our  evacuation 


146  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider'* 

of  Neuve  Chapelle,  compelled  us  to  withdraw  and  re- 
adjust our  line^  This  second  line  was  not  so  defensible 
as  the  first.  Until  we  were  relieved  the  Germans  battered 
at  it  with  gunnery  all  day  and  attacks  all  night.  How  we 
managed  to  hold  it  is  utterly  beyond  my  understanding. 
The  men  were  dog-tired.  Few  of  the  old  officers  were 
left,  and  they  were  "dead  to  the  world."  Never  did  the 
Fighting  Fifth  more  deserve  the  name.  It  fought  dully 
and  instinctively,  like  a  boxer  who,  after  receiving  heavy 
punishment,  just  manages  to  keep  himself  from  being 
knocked  out  until  the  call  of  time. 

Yet,  when  they  had  dragged  themselves  wearily  and 
blindly  out  of  the  trenches,  the  fighting  men  of  the 
Fighting  Fifth  were  given  but  a  day's  rest  or  two  before 
the  15th  and  two  battalions  of  the  13th  were  sent  to 
Hooge,  and  the  remainder  to  hold  sectors  of  the  line  far- 
ther south.  Can  you  wonder  that  we  despatch  riders,  in 
comparative  safety  behind  the  line,  did  all  we  could  to 
help  the  most  glorious  and  amazing  infantry  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen?*  And  when  you  praise  the  deeds 
of  Ypres  of  the  First  Corps,  who  had  experienced  no 
La  Bassee,  spare  a  word  for  the  men  of  the  Fighting 
Fifth  who  thought  they  could  fight  no  more  and  yet 
fought. 

VII— SPY  STORIES :  "THE  OLD  WOMAN" 

A  few  days  after  I  had  returned  from  the  15th  Bri- 
gade I  was  sent  out  to  the  14th.  I  found  them  at  the 
Estaminet  de  TEpinette  on  the  Bethune-Richebourg  road. 
Headquarters  had  been  compelled  to  shift,  hastily  enough. 


*  After  nine  months  at  the  Front — six  and  a  half  months  as  a 
despatch  rider  and  two  and  a  half  months  as  a  cyclist  officer — I 
have  decided  that  the  English  language  has  no  superlative  suffi- 
cient to  describe  our  infantry. 


"Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider''  147 

from  the  Estaminet  de  La  Bombe  on  the  La  Bassee- 
Estaires  road.  The  estaminet  had  been  shelled  to  de- 
struction half  an  hour  after  the  brigade  had  moved.  The 
Estaminet  de  TEpinette  was  filthy  and  small.  I  slept 
in  a  stinking  barn,  half-full  of  dirty  straw,  and  rose  with 
the  sun  for  the  discomfort  of  it. 

Opposite  the  estaminet  a  road  goes  to  Festubert.  At 
the  corner  there  is  a  cluster  of  dishevelled  houses.  I  sat 
at  the  door  and  wrote  letters,  and  looked  for  what  might 
come  to  pass.  In  the  early  dawn  the  poplars  alongside 
the  highway  were  grey  and  dull.  There  was  mist  on  the 
road ;  the  leaves  that  lay  thick  were  black.  Then  as  the 
sun  rose  higher  the  poplars  began  to  glisten  and  the  mist 
rolled  away,  and  the  leaves  were  red  and  brown. 

An  old  woman  came  up  the  road  and  prayed  the  sentry 
to  let  her  pass.  He  could  not  understand  her  and  called 
to  me.  She  told  me  that  her  family  were  in  the  house 
at  the  corner  fifty  yards  distant.  I  replied  that  she  could 
not  go  to  them-^that  they,  if  they  were  content  not  to 
return,  might  come  to  her.  But  the  family  would  not 
leave  their  chickens,  and  cows,  and  corn.  So  the  old 
woman,  who  was  tired,  sank  down  by  the  wayside  and 
wept.  This  sorrow  was  no  sorrow  to  the  sorrow  of  the 
war.  I  left  the  old  woman,  the  sentry,  and  the  family, 
and  went  in  to  a  fine  breakfast. 

At  this  time  there  was  much  talk  about  spies.  Our 
wires  were  often  cut  mysteriously.  A  sergeant  had  been 
set  upon  in  a  lane.  The  enemy  were  finding  our  guns 
with  uncanny  accuracy.  All  our  movements  seemed 
to  be  anticipated  by  the  enemy.  Taking  for  granted  the 
extraordinary  efficiency  of  the  German  Intelligence 
Corps,  we  were  particularly  nervous  about  spies  when  the 
Division  was  worn  out,  when  things  were  not  going 
well. 


148  ''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider'' 

VIII— THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  SHOT 

At  the  Estaminet  de  TEpinette  I  heard  a  certain  story, 
and  hearing  it  set  about  to  make  a  fool  of  myself.  This 
is  the  story— I  have  never  heard  it  substantiated,  and 
give  it  as  an  illustration  and  not  as  fact. 

There  was  once  an  artillery  brigade  billeted  in  a  house 
two  miles  or  so  behind  the  lines.  All  the  inhabitants  of 
the  house  had  fled,  for  the  village  had  been  heavily 
bombarded.  Only  a  girl  had  had  the  courage  to  remain 
and  do  hostess  to  the  English.  She  was  so  fresh  and 
so  charming,  so  clever  in  her  cookery,  and  so  modest 
in  her  demeanour  that  all  the  men  of  the  brigade  head- 
quarters fell  madly  in  love  with  her.  They  even  quar- 
relled. Now  this  brigade  was  suffering  much  from 
espionage.  The  guns  could  not  be  moved  without  the 
Germans  knowing  their  new  position.  No  transport  or 
ammunition  limbers  were  safe  from  the  enemy's  guns. 
The  brigade  grew  mightly  indignant.  The  girl  was  told 
by  her  numerous  sweethearts  what  was  the  matter.  She 
was  angry  and  sympathetic,  and  sv/ore  that  through  her 
the  spy  should  be  discovered.     She  swore  the  truth. 

One  night  a  certain  lewd  fellow  of  the  baser  sort  pur- 
sued the  girl  with  importunate  pleadings.  She  confessed 
that  she  liked  him,  but  not  in  that  way.  He  left  her  and 
stood  sullenly  by  the  door.  The  girl  took  a  pail  and 
went  down  into  the  cellar  to  fetch  up  a  little  coal,  telling 
the  man  with  gentle  mockery  not  to  be  so  foolish.  This 
angered  him,  and  in  a  minute  he  had  rushed  after  her  into 
the  cellar,  snorting  with  disappointed  passion.  Of  course 
he  slipped  on  the  stairs  and  fell  with  a  crash.  The  girl 
screamed.  The  fellow,  his  knee  bruised,  tried  to  feel  his 
way  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and  touched  a  wire. 
Quickly  running  his  hand  along  the  wire  he  came  to  a 
telephone.     The  girl  rushed  to  him,  and,  clasping  his 


''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  149 

knees,  offered  him  anything  he  might  wish,  if  only  he 
would  say  nothing.  I  think  he  must  have  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  but  he  did  not  hesitate  long.    The  girl  was  shot. 

Full  of  this  suspiciously  melodramatic  story  I  caught 
sight  of  a  mysterious  document  fastened  by  nails  to  the 
house  opposite  the  inn.  It  was  covered  with  coloured 
signs  which,  whatever  they  were,  certainly  did  not  form 
letters  or  make  sense  in  any  way.  I  examined  the  docu- 
ment closely.  One  sign  looked  like  an  aeroplane,  an- 
other like  a  house,  a  third  like  the  rough  drawing  of  a 
wood.  I  took  it  to  a  certain  officer,  who  agreed  with 
me  that  it  appeared  suspicious. 

We  carried  it  to  the  staff-captain,  who  pointed  out 
very  forcibly  that  it  had  been  raining  lately,  that  colour 
ran,  that  the  signs  left  formed  portions  of  letters.  I 
demanded  the  owner  of  the  house  upon  which  the  docu- 
ment had  been  posted.  She  was  frightened  and  almost 
unintelligible,  but  supplied  the  missing  fragments.  The 
document  was  a  crude  election  appeal.  Being  interpreted 
it  read  something  like  this : — 

SUPPORT   LEFEVRE.       HE    IS    NOT   A   LIAR   LIKE   DUBOIS. 

Talking  of  spies,  here  is  another  story.     It  is  true. 

Certain  wires  were  always  being  cut.  At  length  a 
patrol  was  organised.  While  the  operator  was  talking 
there  was  a  little  click  and  no  further  acknowledgment 
from  the  other  end.  The  patrol  started  out  and  caught 
the  man  in  the  act  of  cutting  a  second  wire.  He  said 
nothing. 

He  was  brought  before  the  Mayor.  Evidence  was 
briefly  given  of  his  guilt.  He  made  no  protest.  It  was 
stated  that  he  had  been  born  in  the  village.  The  Mayor 
turned  to  the  man  and  said — 

"You  are  a  traitor.  It  is  clear.  Have  you  anything 
to  say?" 


150  "Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider'* 

The  man  stood  white  and  straight.    Then  he  bowed  his 
head  and  made  answer — 
"Priez  pour  moi." 
That  was  no  defence.     So  they  led  him  away. 

IX— TALES  OF  THE  DESPATCH  RIDERS 

The  morning  after  I  arrived  at  the  14th  the  Germans 
concentrated  their  fire  on  a  large  turnip-field  and  ex- 
humed multitudinous  turnips.  No  further  damage  was 
done,  but  the  field  was  unhealthily  near  the  Estaminet  de 
I'Epinette.  In  the  afternoon  we  moved  our  headquarters 
back  a  mile  or  so  to  a  commodious  and  moderately  clean 
farm  with  a  forgettable  name. 

That  evening  two  prisoners  were  brought  in.  They 
owned  to  eighteen,  but  did  not  look  more  than  sixteen. 
the  guard  treated  them  with  kindly  contempt.  We  all 
sat  round  a  makeshift  table  in  the  loft  where  we  slept 
and  told  each  other  stories  of  fighting  and  love  and  fear, 
while  the  boys,  squatting  a  little  distance  away,  listened 
and  looked  at  us  in  wonder.  I  came  in  from  a  ride  about 
one  in  the  morning  and  found  those  of  the  guard  who 
were  ofif  duty  and  the  two  German  boys  sleeping  side 
by  side.  Literally  it  was  criminal  negligence — some  one 
ought  to  have  been  awake — but,  when  I  saw  one  of  the 
boys  was  clasping  tightly  a  packet  of  woodbines,  I  called 
it  something  else  and  went  to  sleep. 

A  day  or  two  later  I  was  relieved.  On  the  following 
afternoon  I  was  sent  to  Estaires  to  bring  back  some 
details  about  the  Lahore  Division  which  had  just  ar- 
rived on  the  line.  I  had,  of  course,  seen  Spahis  and 
Turcos  and  Senegalese,  but  when  riding  through  Lestrem 
I  saw  these  Indian  troops  of  ours  the  obvious  thoughts 
tumbled  over  one  another. 


"Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  151 

We  despatch  riders  when  first  we  met  the  Indians 
wondered  how  they  would  fight,  how  they  would  stand 
shell-fire  and  the  climate — but  chiefly  we  were  filled  with 
a  sort  of  mental  helplessness,  riding  among  people  when 
we  could  not  even  vaguely  guess  at  what  they  were 
thinking.  We  could  get  no  deeper  than  their  appear- 
ance, dignified  and  clean  and  well-behaved. 

In  a  few  days  I  was  back  again  at  the  14th  with 
Huggie.  At  dusk  the  General  went  out  in  his  car  to  a 
certain  village  about  three  miles  distant.  Huggie  went 
with  him.  An  hour  or  so,  and  I  was  sent  after  him  with 
a  despatch.  The  road  was  almost  unrideable  with  the 
worst  sort  of  grease,  the  night  was  pitch-black  and  I  was 
allov/ed  no  light.  I  slithered  along  at  about  six  miles 
an  hour,  sticking  out  my  legs  for  a  permanent  scaffold- 
ing. Many  troops  were  lying  down  at  the  side  of  the 
road.  An  ofhcer  in  a  strained  voice  just  warned  me  in 
time  for  me  to  avoid  a  deep  shell-hole  by  inches.  I  de- 
livered my  despatch  to  the  General.  Outside  the  house 
I  found  two  or  three  officers  I  knew.  Two  of  them 
were  young  captains  in  command  of  battalions.  Then  I 
learned  how  hard  put  to  it  the  Division  was,  and  what 
the  result  is  of  nervous  strain. 

They  had  been  fighting  and  fighting  and  fighting  until 
their  nerves  were  nothing  but  a  jangling  torture.  And  a 
counter-attack  on  Neuve  Chapelle  was  being  organised. 
Huggie  told  me  afterwards  that  when  the  car  had  come 
along  the  road,  all  the  men  had  jumped  like  startled  ani- 
mals and  a  few  had  turned  to  take  cover.  Why,  if  a 
child  had  met  one  of  these  men  she  would  have  taken  him 
by  the  hand  instinctively  and  told  him  not  to  be  fright- 
ened, and  defended  him  against  anything  that  came.  ^ 

First  we  talked  about  the  counter-attack,  and  which 
battalion  would  lead ;  then  with  a  little  manipulation  we 


152  "Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider" 

began  to  discuss  musical  comedy  and  the  beauty  of  cer- 
tain ladies.  Again  the  talk  would  wander  back  to  which 
battalion  would  lead. 

I  returned  perilously  with  a  despatch  and  left  Huggie, 
to  spend  a  disturbed  night  and  experience  those  curious 
sensations  which  are  caused  by  a  shell  bursting  just 
across  the  road  from  the  house. 

^  The  proposed  attack  was  given  up.  If  it  had  been  car- 
ried out,  those  men  would  have  fought  as  finely  as  they 
could.  I  do  not  know  whether  my  admiration  for  the 
infantry  or  my  hatred  of  war  is  the  greater.  I  can 
express  neither. 

X— RIDING  FOUR  MILES  ON  THE  DEAD  LINli 

On  the  following  day  the  Brigadier  moved  to  a  farm 
farther  north.  It  was  the  job  of  Huggie  and  myself  to 
keep  up  communication  between  this  farm  and  the  bri- 
gade headquarters  at  the  farm  with  the  forgettable 
name.  To  ride  four  miles  or  so  along  country  lanes 
from  one  farm  to  another  does  not  sound  particularly 
strenuous.  It  was.  In  the  first  place,  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  advanced  farm  was  not  healthy.  The  front  gate 
was  marked  down  by  a  sniper  who  fired  not  infrequently 
but  a  little  high.  Between  the  back  gate  and  the  main 
road  was  impassable  mud.  Again,  the  farm  was  only 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  behind  our  trenches,  and  "overs" 
went  zipping  through  the  farm  buildings  at  all  sorts  of 
unexpected  angles.  There  were  German  aeroplanes 
about,  so  we  covered  our  stationary  motor-cycles  with 
straw. 

Starting  from  brigade  headquarters  the  despatch  rider 
in  half  a  mile  was  forced  to  pass  the  transport  of  a  Field 
Ambulance.  The  men  seemed  to  take  a  perverted  delight 
in  wandering  aimlessly  across  the  road,  and  in  leaving 


''Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider"  153 

anything  on  the  road  which  could  conceivably  obstruct 
or  annoy  a  motor-cyclist.  Then  came  two  and  a  half 
miles  of  winding  country  lanes.  They  were  cov- 
ered with  grease.  Every  corner  was  blind.  A  particu- 
larly sharp  turn  to  the  right  and  the  despatch  rider  rode 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  in  front  of  a  battery  in  action 
that  the  Germans  were  trying  to  find.  A  "hairpin"  cor- 
ner round  a  house  followed.  This  he  would  take  with 
remarkable  skill  and  alacrity,  because  at  this  corner  he 
was  always  sniped.  The  German's  rifle  was  trained  a 
trifle  high.  Coming  into  the  final  straight  the  despatch 
rider  rode  for  all  he  was  worth.  It  was  unpleasant  to 
find  new  shell-holes  just  off  the  road  each  time  you 
passed,  or,  as  you  came  into  the  straight,  to  hear  the 
shriek  of  shrapnel  between  you  and  the  farm. 

Huggie  once  arrived  at  the  house  of  the  "hairpin" 
bend  simultaneously  with  a  shell.  The  shell  hit  the 
house,  the  house  did  not  hit  Huggie,  and  the  sniper  for- 
got to  snipe.    So  every  one  was  pleased. 

On  my  last  journey  I  passed  a  bunch  of  wounded 
Sikhs.  They  were  clinging  to  all  their  kit.  One  man 
was  wounded  in  both  his  feet.  He  was  being  carried  by 
two  of  his  fellows.     In  his  hands  he  clutched  his  boots. 

The  men  did  not  know  where  to  go  or  what  to  do.  I 
could  not  make  them  understand,  but  I  tried  by  gestures 
to  show  them  where  the  ambulance  was. 

I  saw  two  others — they  were  slightly  wounded — talk- 
ing fiercely  together.  At  last  they  grasped  their  rifles 
firmly,  and  swinging  round,  limped  back  towards  the 
line. 

Huggie  did  most  of  the  work  that  day,  because  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  I  was  kept  back 
at  brigade  headquarters. 

In  the  evening  I  went  out  in  the  car  to  fetch  the  gen- 
eral.    The  car,  which  was  old  but  stout,  had  been  left 


154  *' Adventures  of  a  Despatch  Rider** 

behind  by  the  Germans.  The  driver  of  it  was  a  reservist 
who  had  been  taken  from  the  battaHon.  Day  and  night 
he  tended  and  coaxed  that  car.  He  tied  it  together  when 
it  fell  to  pieces.  At  all  times  and  all  places  he  drove 
that  car,  for  he  had  no  wish  at  all  to  return  to  the 
trenches. 

On  the  following  day  Huggie  and  I  were  relieved. 
When  we  returned  to  our  good  old  musty  quarters  at 
Bcuvry  men  talked  of  a  move.  There  were  rumours  of 
hard  fighting  in  Ypres.  Soon  the  Lahore  Division  came 
down  towards  our  line  and  began  to  take  over  from  us. 
The  14th  Brigade  was  left  to  strengthen  them.  The 
15th  and  13th  began  to  move  north. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  October  29  we  started,  riding 
first  along  the  canal  by  Bethune.  As  for  Festubert, 
Givenchy,  Violaines,  Rue  de  Marais,  Quinque  Rue,  and 
La  Bassee,  we  never  want  to  see  them  again. 

(This  despatch  rider's  stories  are  dedicated  "To  the 
Perfect  Mother— My  Own."  He  describes  "Enlisting" ; 
"The  Journey  to  the  Front";  "The  Battle  of  Mons" ; 
"The  Great  Retreat" ;  "Over  the  Marne  to  the  Aisne"— 
and  many  other  adventures.) 


WITH  A  B.-P.  SCOUT  IN  GALLIPOLI— 
ON  THE  TURKISH  FRONTIER 

A  Record  of  the  Belton  Bulldogs 

Told  by  Edmund  Yerhury  Priestman,  Scoutmaster  of 
the  16th  (Westbourne)  Sheffield  Boy  Scouts 

These  anecdotes  and  experiences  are  related  in  the  letters  writ- 
the  home  by  a  scoutmaster  serving  as  a  subaltern.  The  author, 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  War,  officered  the  Boy  Scouts  who  were 
guarding  places  of  danger  from  spies  in  England.  He  took  a 
commission  in  the  6th  Battalion  of  the  York  and  Lancaster 
Regiment,  and  shipped  for  Suvla  Bay  in  the  Dardanelles  Cam- 
paign. Here  this  young  English  officer  of  twenty-five  years  of 
age  fell  in  action  on  November  19th,  1915-  His  letters  have 
been  collected  into  a  book  under  title  "With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in 
Gallipoli."  They  form  one  of  the  few  really  humorous  books 
the  War  has  produced,  with  an  irrepressible  outburst  of  a  youth 
who  always  saw  the  cheerful  side  of  life.  Some  of  these  letters 
are  here  reproduced  with  courtesy  of  his  American  publishers, 
E.  P.  Button  and  Company,  of  New  York.     All  rights  reserved. 

*  I_STORY  OF  A  DUGOUT  UNDER  JOHNNY 
TURK'S  GUNS 

Somewhere  in  Turkey. 
I  AM  sitting  on  a  rolled-up  valise,  a  sort  of  hold-all  in 
a  dug-out  on  a  hillside,  while  a  weary  "fatigue"  party 
is  digging  more  dug-outs.  Writing  isn't  easy,  as  I  have 
to  balance  the  paper  on  my  knee,  so  pardon !  This  little 
hole  in  Europe  {i.e.  this  dug-out)  appears  to  belong  to  a 

♦All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told—not  to  chapters 
in  the  original  sources. 


156  With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli 

Second-Lieutenant  Huggins — at  least,  that's  the  name  of 
the  valise — and  taken  all  round  it  is  quite  a  good  hole 
to  live  in.  Our  life  has  become  analogous  to  the  life 
of  a  rabbit,  and  we  vie  with  each  other  as  to  the  security 
of  our  respective  burrows  against  the  little  attentions 
paid  us  daily  by  the  Turkish  gunners.  Mr.  Huggins,  so 
far  as  security  goes,  has  done  well,  as  his  lair  is  dug  some 
five  feet  deep  and  strongly  built  up  with  stone  parapets. 
Lying  at  the  bottom  he  (or  the  present  occupier,  E.  Y.  P.) 
would  be  fairly  safe  against  either  shrapnel  or  high 
explosive.  But  when  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep  I  guess 
Huggins  will  be  one  of  the  sickest  soldiers  on  the  Penin- 
sula, for  in  the  left-hand  a  party  of  some  i,cmdo,ooo  ants 
are  at  this  moment  digging  themselves  in !  Itchi  koo !  as 
the  song  says. 

We  are  really  reserve,  resting  at  present,  but  it  seems 
that  we  have  to  do  all  the  dirty  work  for  the  fellows 
who  have  taken  over  our  nice  comfortable  trenches,  and 
we  shan't  be  sorry  to  get  back  into  them  on  Sunday  next. 

The  great  advantage  of  our  present  position  is  that  the 
hill  we  are  on  runs  down  to  the  sea,  and  every  day  we 
can  get  a  dip,  so  long  as  we  stay  here.  After  a  week  or 
two  in  the  trenches  we  certainly  need  plenty  of  bathing, 
and  I  caught  two  of  the  minor  horrors  of  war  in  my 
shirt  yesterday.  One  of  them  (the  hen-bird)  won  the 
prize  offered  by  one  of  the  subalterns  for  the  biggest 
caught.  Private  Jones's  boast  that  he  had  caught  one  "as 
big  as  a  mule"  failed  to  materialise  when  the  time  for 
weighing-in  came.  So  mine  (no  large  than  an  average 
mouse)  won  easily. 

At  this  point  I  will  break  off  for  a  lunch  of  bully  and 
biscuits. 

To  resume,  having  finished  my  lunch,  using  Mr.  Hug- 
gins' valise  as  a  table. 


With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli  157 

Away  to  the  east,  along  this  ridge  of  hills,  somebody  is 
firing  machine-guns  and  artillery,  but  as  I  can  only  see 
the  smoke  of  the  shrapnel  away  up  in  the  sky  above  the 
hilltops,  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  our  guns  or 
Johnny  Turk's.  If  they  are  his  we  shall  soon  have  some 
over  us  here,  as  he  has  picked  up  the  Hun's  habit  of 
having  at  least  one  daily  "hate."  Another  shell  has  burst 
— nearer  us  this  time.  Yes,  Johnny  is  out  for  blood, 
so  I  have  moved  the  Huggins  bundle  and  settled  myself 
on  the  hard,  cold  floor  of  the  Palace  Huggins,  where  the 
shrapnel  bullets  will  have  more  difficulty  in  finding  me. 

The  system  the  gunners  go  on  is  to  send  an  officer  up  a 
hill  to  a  place  where  he  can  see  the  countryside.  He 
observes  through  the  'scope  where  the  places  are  that  the 
enemy  troops  mostly  use,  paths,  wells,  dug-outs,  etc.,  and 
marks  them  on  his  map,  probably  numbering  them 
points  I,  2,  3,  and  so  on.  He  also  has  an  accurate  range- 
finder  and  a  telephone  connecting  him  with  the  battery 
of  guns.  If  he  sees  a  party  of  men  at  a  certain  spot,  he 
wires  down:  "Give  'em  socks  at  point  17,"  or  words  to 
that  efifect,  and  we  get  a  few  shells  along,  while  the  ob- 
serving officer  scores  the  hits.  Other  days  I  rather  sus- 
pect he  puts  all  the  numbers  into  a  hat  and  shakes  them 
up.  Then  he  picks  one  out,  and  with  luck  the  shell  falls 
two  miles  away  from  anyone  and  wipes  out  an  ant-hill 
with  great  slaughter. 

He's  a  peculiar  gentleman,  old  man  Turk.  One  night 
when  I  was  going  my  rounds  in  the  trenches  I  noticed  a 
general  rush  at  a  point  where  generally  some  of  our 
liveliest  boys  want  suppressing,  so  I  listened,  as  everyone 
else  seemed  to  be  doing,  and  away  from  behind  the 
Turks'  trenches  came  a  sound  of  a  band,  playing  some 
real  racy  oriental  music.  We  had  quite  a  promenade 
concert.  Coming  from  over  the  rugged  top  of  a  rocky 
hill  and  through  the  quiet  starlit  night  it  was  quite  weird, 


158  With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli 

in  a  way,  but  we  all  enjoyed  it.  In  France  the  Germans 
often  have  a  bit  of  a  concert  before  any  big  attack,  but 
although  we  thought  Johnny  Turk  might  be  going  to  do 
the  same,  no  attack  came  off  that  night.  We  did  have  a 
mild  attack  once — see  enclosed  account  * — but  the  enemy 
never  got  within  very  exciting  distance  of  the  section  of 
the  trench  I  was  responsible  for.  Anyway,  you  can  shov/ 
this  printed  account  round,  and  tell  everyone  that  your 
son  helped  General  Maxwell  to  hold  the  Turks  back. 
What!    What! 

II— WHEN  THE  GENERAL  VISITS  THE  BOYS 

Talking  about  generals :  we  all  came  out  of  the  trenches 
feeling  very  sorry  for  ourselves  when  we  were  relieved  a 
week  ago.  Certainly  we  were  dog-tired  and  inexpressibly 
dirty.  The  day  following  our  Divisional  General  elected 
to  inspect  us.  Thought  we  to  ourselves:  "This  means 
that  he  is  going  to  see  what  is  left  of  us,  just  to  see  if 
we  are  even  good  enough  to  go  as  a  garrison  to,  say, 
Malta."  Someone  even  whispered  "India."  Certainly 
no  one  would  for  one  moment  have  suggested  the  pos- 
sibility of  our  being  of  the  least  use  as  a  fighting  unit 
ever  again.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  numbers,  health,  and 


*A  sudden  attack  was  made  on  the  right  of  the  nth  Division 
and  upon  the  extreme  left  of  the  29th  Division  about  2  o'clock 
on  the  night  of  the  ist  instant.  It  commenced  with  shell,  ma- 
chine gun,  and  rifle  fire  on  Jephson's  post  and  along  Keretch 
Tepe  Sirt  ridge.  Brigadier-General  Maxwell  was  holding  the 
right  section  of  the  nth  Division  when  a  body  of  the  enemy- 
attempted  a  bomb  and  bayonet  assault  under  cover  of  their 
bombardment.  There  was  no  heart,  however,  in  the  attack,  and 
it  was  easily  repulsed  with  loss  to  the  enemy. 

The  Navy,  as  usual  on  such  occasions,  were  prompt  with  their 
assistance,  and  the  flanking  torpedo-boat  destroyer  with  her 
searchlight  lit  up  the  northern  slopes  of  Keretch  Tepe  and 
effectively  stopped  the  enemy  from  pressing  in  along  the  coast. 


With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli  159 

morale  we  were  pretty  weak.  The  General  looked  on 
the  brighter  side,  however,  and  our  dreams  of  Bombay 
were  shattered  pretty  quickly.  The  General  made  a 
speech.  He  said  that  probably  not  since  the  days  of  the 
Peninsular  War  had  troops  such  a  hard  time  as  we  had 
during  the  past  month.  (We  sighed  solemn  approval.) 
We  had  come  through  well.  He  told  us  that  our  hard- 
ships had  apparently  left  us  little  the  worse.  (At  this 
point  a  private  fell  forward  in  a  faint — for  which  piece 
of  acting  I  firmly  believe  he  had  been  subsidised  by  his 
fellow-men!  The  body  having  been  ostentatiously  re- 
moved, the  General  continued.)  There  were  other  hard 
times  ahead  for  us,  he  said  (exit  dream  of  India),  but 
for  several  days  yet  we  should  continue  to  rest.  ("Fall 
in,  those  fifty  men  with  picks  and  shovels!"  came  the 
voice  of  a  sergeant-major  some  distance  away.)  "And 
here  y'are,"  concluded  the  General,  looking  round  at  the 
circle  of  faces  ingrained  with  brown  dust  and  looking 
swarthy  in  consequence,  "here  y'are  all  looking  as  fit  as 
can  be !"  He  ended  by  saying  that  when  he  had  got  our 
reinforcements  out  from  home  he  felt  sure  we  should  be 
as  good  a  fighting  force  as  ever — which  I  suppose  we 
shall  be.  All  the  same,  we  shall  have  earned  a  rest  soon, 
I  hope. 

The  ridge  of  hills  we're  on  is  very  much  the  shape 
(and  nearly  the  height)  of  the  Maiden  Moor  and  Cat- 
bells  ridge.  First  comes  a  place  like  Eel  Crags,  all  cover- 
ed with  dug-outs  on  the  Newlands  side  and  occupied 
by  hundreds  of  troops.  Then  you  come  on,  still  on  the 
same  side,  by  a  foot-path  to  about  the  middle  of  Maiden 
Moor.  Here  you  will  find  us,  only  instead  of  our  homes 
looking  down  into  the  valley,  they  look  down  on  to  the 
sea-shore  and  away  out  to  sea,  where  we  can  see  one  or 
two  rocky  islands  and  far  away  the  coast  of  the  main- 
land of  Turkey,  a  bit  of  Bulgaria,  and  a  bit  of  Greece. 


l6o  With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli 

Over  on  the  other  side  we  can  see  right  away  down 
the  Peninsula  and  pick  out  all  the  positions  you  read 
about  in  the  papers.  Following  on  the  ridge,  you  come 
to  a  dip  before  reaching  the  hill  corresponding  to  Cat- 
bells,  and  here  is  our  trench,  running  over  the  saddle  of 
the  hill.  Beyond,  on  the  slope,  is  the  Turkish  trench,  and 
somewhere  about  where  that  old  "skeleton"  is  that  we 
used  to  see  from  the  lake  as  we  rowed  to  Keswick,  the 
Turks  have  their  guns.  They  also  have  one  beyond  the 
end  of  the  ridge,  about  where  Crossthwaite  is.  Well, 
that  gives  you  the  general  situation  of  our  part  of  the 
line,  without  saying  too  much. 

The  trouble  at  present  is  that  they  can't  locate  the  ex- 
act position  of  the  Turks'  big  gun,  which  is  very  cleverly 
hidden.  The  Navy,  the  artillery,  and  the  airmen  have 
all  been  hunting  for  weeks,  but  so  far  none  of  them  have 
put  it  out  of  action,  and  "Striking  Jimmy,"  as  we  call 
him,  goes  on  calmly  dropping  nine-inch  high  explosives 
about  the  hills.  Fortunately  he  doesn't  often  hit  any- 
thing really  important  (touch  wood! — he's  just  sent  a 
shell  in  our  direction). 

I  met  Owen  quite  unexpectedly  on  the  beach  the  other 
day.  His  section  is  stationed  some  miles  from  here,  so 
I  sha'n't  be  likely  to  run  across  him  again.  It  was  very 
lucky  seeing  him  at  all.  He  was  very  busy  making  pump- 
ing arrangements  for  the  water  supply,  and  I  (as  usual, 
in  charge  of  a  fatigue-party)  was  asleep  under  one  of 
his  water-tanks,  when  he  began  to  curse  me  for  being 
on  prohibited  premises.  It  was  quite  funny !  Then  he 
recognized  me,  and  we  had  a  whole  afternoon  together. 
He's  had  some  pretty  rough  times  and  narrow  escapes, 
just  as  I  have,  but  we've  both  got  so  far  and  quite  hope 
to  finish  all  safe  now. 

Don't  ask  me  how  things  are  going  here.  You,  who 
see  the  newspapers,  know  far  more  than  we  do. 


With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli  l6l 

HI— "WHISTLING  WILLIE"— AND  THE  HUMAN 

GUNS 

When  you  have  Hved  for  ten  days  in  a  region  where 
they  wander  whistHng  overhead,  where  they  somersault 
eccentrically  in  circles,  where  they  drop  bits  of  themselves 
with  the  buzz  of  a  drunken  bumblebee,  where,  in  fact, 
they  do  everything  but  burst,  you  come  to  know  the  pro- 
jectile family  fairly  intimately.  In  fact,  some  poetically 
constructed  Bulldog  has  christened  the  various  members 
of  the  family. 

First,  there  is  Whistling  Willie,  a  bustling  soul,  who 
does  his  journey,  between  the  boom  of  leaving  his  front 
door  and  the  moment  when  he  sneezes  up  a  cloud  of  dust 
in  front  of  our  parapet,  in  about  four  and  a  half  seconds. 
You  can  almost  hear  him  saying  to  the  Turkish  gunners : 
"Now  then,  you  chaps,  come  on,  buck  up,  look  alive! 
That's  it,  off  we  go,  hooooom!  ziszzzz!  Here  we  are — 
tishco !"  Yes,  he's  a  brisk,  pushing  lad,  is  WiUie,  but 
rather  superficial  really.  There's  more  swagger  and 
dust  about  him  than  the  result  justifies — although  it's 
only  fair  to  say  that  he  once  threw  up  a  stone  large 
enough  to  upset  the  Adjutant's  tea.  Probably  the  war 
will  end  (if  ever)  with  that  deed  of  questionable  military 
significance  to  his  credit,  and  no  more. 

Willie's  cousin,  Whispering  Walter,  also  of  Ottoman 
origin,  is  a  fellow  of  infinitely  more  worth  and  solidity. 
Though  he  takes  longer  over  his  trip  from  the  muzzle  to 
the  mark  he  makes  up  for  lost  time  when  he  gets  there. 
It  is  rather  as  though  he  gave  his  gunners  instructions  to 
push  him  off  slowly  so  as  to  give  him  time  to  pick  a  good 
place  to  drop.  "Very  good,"  they  say  to  him,  "off  yer 
goes!"  Booooom!  A  pause.  Then  Walter  comes  into 
our  area — ''Whizdiszlizzle ,"  he  whispers  to  himself  con- 
fidentially, as  much  as  to  say,  "Now  where,  down  be- 


i62  With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli 

low,  is  a  good  fat  Brigadier,  or  a  mountain  battery,  or 
a  pile  of  stores  (dash  it,  I  must  hurry  up  and  spot  some- 
thing;  I'm  nearly  exhausted) — oh,  a  girls'  school,  a  cab- 
bage-patch— anything!"  And  down  he  comes — whang! — 
as  often  as  not  half  a  mile  from  anything  he  could  dam- 
age. There  is  a  lesson  on  the  futility  of  procrastination 
in  Walter's  methods. 

Walter  has  two  brothers,  Clanking  Claud  and  Stumer 
Steve.  Claud  always  sets  out,  like  his  elder  brother,  in 
a  meditative  mood.  Having  traveled  a  sufficient  distance 
and  found  nothing  worthy  of  his  mettle,  he  decides,  ap- 
parently, to  show  his  independence  by  never  coming  down 
from  his  airy  height  to  earth  at  all.  So  "Kerlank!"  he 
says,  and  disappears  ostentatiously  in  a  cloud  of  white 
smoke  some  fifty  yards  above  us.  True,  he  showers  a  lot 
of  little  leaden  marbles,  but  that  merely  shows  his  spite- 
ful nature. 

And  then  there  is  poor  Stumer  Steve.  *Tf  ye  have 
tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now,"  for  Stephen  is  both 
blind  and  dumb.  Though  he  sets  out  full  as  his  brothers 
of  resolution,  though,  like  Walter,  he  whispers  promises 
of  daring  deeds,  like  Claud,  passes  with  discriminating 
deliberation  over  the  ground  below,  yet  his  final  descent 
is  a  hollow  and  meaningless  affair,  though  pathetic 
withal,  "Plunk!"  In  a  word  the  requiem  of  Steve.  A 
young  and  apparently  vigorous  life  robbed  of  its  final 
destiny,  a  career  despoiled  of  its  rightful  goal.  Often 
we  find  he  is  filled  with — sawdust !  Sawdust !  Like  any 
sixpence-halfpenny  doll !  Sometimes  he  is  empty  alto- 
gether. Poor  Steven,  the  best  that  can  be  said  of  him, 
even  when  in  desperation  he  lands  upon  a  stone  and 
goes  hurtling  away  in  spiral  somersaults,  is — "stumer," 
and  even  that's  an  American  word! 

Quite  another  kettle  of  fish  is  Greasy  Gregory.  There 
is  a  solemnity,  a  grandeur,  and  a  determination  about 


With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli  163 

Greg  that  inspires  respect.  Also  he  is  just  about  twice 
the  size  of  his  fellows  and  takes  quite  twice  as  long  in 
making  his  way  to  earth.  The  mysterious  and  rather  awe- 
inspiring  feature  of  his  performance  is  that  you  never 
hear  him  start !  Possibly  you  are  sitting  over  a  slice  of 
bacon  or  a  savoury,  bully  stew  when  he  makes  his  ad- 
vent known.  Just  a  greasy  flutter  overhead  and  then 
'' Crash  r    Gregory  has  come. 

Everything  gets  up  and  changes  places  in  a  cloud  of 
yellow  dust  and  smoke.  The  atmosphere  being  thick, 
things  that  have  no  sort  of  right  there  get  into  intimate 
and  inconvenient  places  (tea-pots,  tunic  pockets,  etc.), 
and  I  have  spent  as  much  as  twenty  minutes  in  a  time  of 
famine  separating  Gallipoli  Peninsula  from  raspberry- jam 
after  one  of  Gregory's  little  jokes. 

Last,  and  least,  comes  the  clown  of  the  party— Airy 
Archibald.  His  specialty  is  aeroplanes,  and  his  efforts 
are  acknowledged  to  be  purely  humorous  by  both  sides. 
His  methods  are  something  like  this.  On  some  still, 
cloudless  afternoon  a  distant  buzzing  sound  is  heard, 
heralding  the  approach  of  an  aeroplane.  Instantly  Archi- 
bald springs  into  life.    Whoop-pop  I 

Somewhere  (it  generally  takes  a  good  deal  of  findmg) 
a  tiny  puff  of  smoke  appears  against  the  blue.  Never  by 
any  chance  is  it  in  the  same  quarter  of  the  sky  as  the  air- 
craft. Whoop-pop!  Whoop-pop  I  One  after  another 
they  leap  up  to  have  a  look.  The  airman  never  takes 
the  smallest  notice,  but  sails  serenely  on,  and  never  yet 
have  I  seen  Archibald  get  within  a  thousand  yards  of 
his  object.  Once,  so  rumor  has  it,  he  did  get  nearer,  so 
near,  in  fact,  that  two  of  his  bullets  hit  a  wing  of  the 
machine.  But  the  shock  of  success  was  too  great,  and 
Archie's  empty  shell  falling  to  earth  put  two  of  his  own 
gunners  out  of  action !  This  story  I  cannot  vouch  for, 
but  this  I  know,  that  after  a  monoplane  has  actually  dis- 


164  With  a  B.-P.  Scout  in  Gallipoli 

appeared  over  the  horizon  I  have  seen  Archibald  jump 
viciously  at  him  four  times  and  every  time  miss  him 
by  quite  three  miles!  Well,  here's  to  you,  my  comic 
friend.  You  add  a  humor  to  life,  and  I  wish  the  others 
could  follow  your  lead,  and,  taking  life  less  seriously, 
give  us  as  wide  a  miss. 

(Four  weeks  later,  the  writer  of  this  narrative  fell  in 
the  trenches  a  victim  of  these  Turkish  guns.) 


"IN  THE  FIELD"— THE  STORIES  OF 
THE  FRENCH  CHASSEURS 

Impressions  of  an  Officer  of  Light  Cavalry 

Told  hy  Lieut.  Marcel  Duponty  of  the  French 
Chasseurs 

This  officer  of  the  Light  Cavalry  tells  a  straightforward  story 
of  the  charges  on  the  battlefields  of  the  War :  "Days  of  misery, 
days  of  joy,  days  of  battle — what  volumes  we  might  write  if 
we  were  to  follow  our  squadrons  day  by  day.  I  have  merely 
tried  to  make  a  written  record  of  some  of  the  hours  I  have 
lived  through.  If  I  should  come  out  of  the  deathly  struggle 
safe  and  sound,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me  some  day  to  read 
over  these  notes  of  battle  and  bivouac.  I  shall  rejoice  if  I  have 
been  able  to  revise  some  phases  of  the  tragedy  in  which  we 
were  the  actors  if  my  brothers-in-arms  read  the  simple  tales  of 
a  lieutenant  of  Chasseurs,  an  unschooled  effort  of  a  soldier 
more  apt  with  the  sword  than  with  the  pen."  M.  Dupont  tells: 
"How  I  Went  to  the  Front,"  "The  First  Charge,"  "Sister  Ga- 
briel," and  "Christmas  Night."  Some  of  these  stories  are  here 
told  by  permission  of  his  publishers  from  his  book,  ''In  the 
Field." — /.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 

*  I— NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  PEASANT 

One  morning  in  the  middle  of  September,  1914,  as 
we  raised  our  heads  at  about  six  o'clock  from  the  straw 
on  which  we  had  slept,  I  and  my  friend  F.  had  a  very 
disagreeable  surprise:  we  heard  in  the  darkness  the  gen- 
tle, monotonous  noise  of  water  falling  drop  by  drop 
from  the  pent-house  onto  the  road. 


♦All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
from   original   sources. 

165 


1 66      '7w  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs'^ 

Arriving  at  Pevy  the  evening  before,  just  before  mid- 
night, we  had  found  refuge  in  a  house  belonging  to  a 
peasant.  The  hostess,  a  good  old  soul  of  eighty,  had 
placed  at  our  disposal  a  small  bare  room  paved  with 
tiles,  in  which  our  orderlies  had  prepared  a  sumptuous 
bed  of  trusses  of  straw.  The  night  had  been  delightful, 
and  we  should  have  awaked  in  good  spirits  had  it  not 
been  for  the  distressing  fact  noticed  by  my  friend. 

"It  is  raining,"  said  F. 

I  could  not  but  agree  with  him.  Those  who  have  been 
soldiers,  and  especially  cavalrymen,  know  to  the  full  how 
dispiriting  is  the  sound  of  those  few  words :  "It  is 
raining." 

*Tt  is  raining"  means  your  clothes  will  be  saturated; 
your  cloak  will  be  drenched,  and  weigh  at  least  forty 
pounds ;  the  water  will  drip  from  your  shako  along  your 
neck  and  down  your  back ;  above  all,  your  high  boots  will 
be  transformed  into  two  little  pools  in  which  your  feet 
paddle  woefully.  It  means  broken  roads,  mud  splashing 
you  up  to  the  eyes,  horses  slipping,  reins  stiffened,  your 
saddle  transformed  into  a  hip-bath.  It  means  that  the 
little  clean  linen  you  have  brought  with  you — that  pre- 
cious treasure — in  your  saddlebags,  will  be  changed  into 
a  wet  bundle  on  which  large  and  inedible  yellow  stains 
have  been  made  by  the  soaked  leather. 

But  it  was  no  use  to  think  of  all  this.  The  orders  ran : 
"Horses  to  be  saddled,  and  squadron  ready  to  mount,  at 
6.30."    And  they  had  to  be  carried  out. 

It  was  still  dark.  I  went  out  into  the  yard,  after  pull- 
ing down  my  campaigning  cap  over  my  ears.  Well,  after 
all,  the  evil  was  less  than  I  had  feared.  It  was  not  rain- 
ing, but  drizzling.  The  air  was  mild,  and  there  was  not 
a  breath  of  wind.  When  once  our  cloaks  were  on  it 
would  take  some  hours  for  the  wet  to  reach  our  shirts. 
At  the  farther  end  of  the  yard  some  men  were  moving 


'In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       167 

about  round  a  small  fire.  Their  shadows  passed  to  and 
fro  in  front  of  the  ruddy  light.  They  were  making  coffee 
— jus,  as  they  call  it — that  indispensable  ration  in  which 
they  soak  bread  and  make  a  feast  without  which  they 
think  a  man  cannot  be  a  good  soldier. 

I  ran  to  my  troop  through  muddy  alleys,  skipping 
from  side  to  side  to  avoid  the  puddles.  Daylight  ap- 
peared, pale  and  dismal.  A  faint  smell  rose  from  the 
sodden  ground. 

"Nothing  new,  mon  Lieutenant,"  were  the  words  that 
greeted  me  from  the  sergeant,  who  then  made  his  report. 
I  had  every  confidence  in  him ;  he  had  been  some  years 
in  the  service,  and  knew  his  business.  Small  and  lean, 
and  tightly  buttoned  into  his  tunic,  in  spite  of  all  our 
trials  he  was  still  the  typical  smart  light  cavalry  non- 
commissioned officer.  I  knew  he  had  already  gone  round 
the  stables,  which  he  did  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  pat- 
ting the  horses'  haunches  and  looking  with  a  watchful 
eye  to  see  whether  some  limb  had  not  been  hurt  by  a 
kick  or  entangled  in  its  tether. 

In  the  large  yard  of  the  abandoned  and  pillaged  farm, 
where  the  men  had  been  billeted  they  were  hurrying  to 
fasten  the  last  buckles  and  take  their  places  in  the  ranks. 
I  quickly  swallowed  my  portion  of  insipid  lukewarm 
coffee,  brought  me  by  my  orderly ;  then  I  went  to  get  my 
orders  from  the  Captain,  who  was  lodged  in  the  market- 
square.  No  word  had  yet  been  received  from  the 
Colonel,  who  was  quartered  at  the  farm  of  Vadiville,  two 
kilometres  off.  Patience!  We  had  been  used  to  these 
long  waits  since  the  army  had  been  pulled  up  before  the 
formidable  line  of  trenches  which  the  Germans  had  dug 
north  of  Rheims.  They  were  certainly  most  dishearten- 
ing ;  but  it  could  not  be  helped,  and  it  was  of  no  use  to 
complain.  I  turned  and  went  slowly  up  the  steep  foot- 
path that  led  to  my  billet. 


1 68      "In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs" 

II— "I  OPENED  THE  HEAVY  DOOR— AND 
ENTERED  THE  CHURCH" 

Pevy  is  a  poor  little  village,  clinging  to  the  last  slopes 
of  a  line  of  heights  that  runs  parallel  to  the  road  from 
Rheims  to  Paris.  Its  houses  are  huddled  together,  and 
seem  to  be  grouped  at  the  foot  of  the  ridges  for  protec- 
tion from  the  north  wind.  The  few  alleys  which  inter- 
sect the  village  climb  steeply  up  the  side  of  the  hill.  We 
were  obliged  to  tramp  about  in  the  sticky  mud  of  the 
main  road  waiting  for  our  orders. 

Passing  the  church,  it  occurred  to  me  to  go  and  look 
inside.  Since  the  war  had  begun  we  had  hardly  had  any 
opportunity  of  going  into  the  village  churches  we  had 
passed.  Some  of  them  were  closed  because  the  parish 
priests  had  left  for  the  army,  or  because  the  village  had 
been  abandoned  to  the  enemy.  Others  had  served  as 
marks  for  the  artillery,  and  now  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  villages,  ruins  loftier  and  more  pitiable  than  the 
rest. 

The  church  of  Pevy  seemed  to  be  clinging  to  the  side 
of  the  hill,  and  was  approached  by  a  narrow  stairway  of 
greyish  stone,  climbing .  up  between  moss-grown  walls. 
I  first  passed  through  the  modest  little  churchyard,  with 
its  humble  tombs  half  hidden  in  the  grass,  and  read  some 
of  the  simple  inscriptions : 

"Here  lies  .  .  .  Here  lies  .  .  .  Pray  for  him.  .  .  ." 

The  narrow  pathway  leading  to  the  porch  was  almost 
hidden  in  the  turf,  and  as  I  walked  up  it  my  boots  brushed 
the  drops  from  the  grass.  The  damp  seemed  to  be  getting 
into  my  bones,  for  it  was  still  drizzling — a  fine  persistent 
drizzle.  Behind  me  the  village  was  in  mist;  the  roofs 
and  the  maze  of  chimney  tops  were  hardly  distinguish- 
able. 

Passing  through  a  low,  dark  porch,  I  opened  the  heavy 


*'In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       169 

door  studded  with  iron  nails,  and  entered  the  church,  and 
at  once  experienced  a  feehng  of  relaxation,  of  comfort 
and  repose.  How  touching  the  little  sanctuary  of  Pevy 
seemed  to  me  in  its  humble  simplicity ! 

Imagine  a  kind  of  hall  with  bare  walls,  the  vault  sup- 
ported by  two  rows  of  thick  pillars.  The  narrow  Gothic 
windows  hardly  allowed  the  grey  light  to  enter.  There 
were  no  horrible  cheap  modern  stained  windows,  but  a 
multitude  of  small  white  rectangular  leaded  panes.  All 
this  was  simple  and  worn ;  but  to  me  it  seemed  to  breathe 
a  noble  and  touching  poetry.  And  what  charmed  me 
above  all  was  that  the  pale  light  did  not  reveal  walls 
covered  with  the  horrible  colour-wash  we  are  accustomed 
to  see  in  most  of  our  village  churches. 

This  church  was  an  old  one,  a  very  old  one.  Its  style 
was  not  very  well  defined,  for  it  had  no  doubt  been  built, 
damaged,  destroyed,  rebuilt  and  repaired  by  many  dif- 
ferent generations.  But  those  who  preserved  it  to  the 
present  day  had  avoided  the  lamentable  plastering  which 
disfigures  so  many  others.  The  walls  were  built  with 
fine  large  stones,  on  which  time  had  left  its  melancholy 
impress.  There  was  no  grotesque  painting  on  them  to 
mar  their  quiet  beauty,  and  the  dim  light  that  filtered 
through  at  that  early  hour  gave  them  a  vague  soft  glow. 

No  pictures  or  ornaments  disfigured  the  walls.  The 
"Stations  of  the  Cross"  were  the  only  adornment,  and 
they  were  so  simple  and  childish  in  their  execution  that 
they  were  no  doubt  the  work  of  some  rustic  artist.  And 
even  this  added  a  touching  note  to  a  harmonious  whole. 

Ill— "I  KNELT— THE  PRIEST  WAS  SAYING 
MASS" 

But  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  slight  noise,  a  kind 
pf  soft  and  monotonous  murmur,  coming  from  the  altar. 
The  choir  was  almost  in  darkness,  but  I  could  distinguish 


170      '7w  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs*' 

the  six  stars  of  the  lighted  candles.  In  front  of  the 
tabernacle  was  standing  a  large  white  shadowy  form, 
almost  motionless  and  like  a  phantom.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  steps  another  form  was  kneeling,  bowed  down 
towards  the  floor;  it  did  not  stir  as  I  approached.  I 
went  towards  the  choir  on  tip-toe,  very  cautiously.  I 
felt  that  I,  a  profane  person,  was  committing  a  sacrilege 
by  coming  to  disturb  those  two  men  praying  there  all 
alone  in  the  gloom  of  that  sad  morning.  A  deep  feeling 
of  emotion  passed  through  me,  and  I  felt  so  insignificant 
in  their  presence  and  in  the  mysterious  atmosphere  of 
the  place  that  I  knelt  down  humbly,  almost  timidly,  in 
the  shadow  of  one  of  the  great  pillars  near  the  altar. 

Then  I  could  distinguish  my  fellow-worshippers  better. 
A  priest  was  saying  mass.  He  was  young  and  tall,  and 
his  gestures  as  he  officiated  were  low  and  dignified.  He 
did  not  know  that  some  one  was  present  watching  him 
closely ;  so  it  could  not  be  supposed  that  he  was  speak- 
ing and  acting  to  impress  a  congregation,  and  yet  he  had 
a  way  of  kneeling,  of  stretching  out  his  arms  and  of 
looking  up  to  the  humble  gilded  cross  in  front  of  him, 
that  revealed  all  the  ardour  of  fervent  prayers.  Occa- 
sionally he  turned  towards  the  back  of  the  church  to  pro- 
nounce the  ritual  words.  His  face  was  serious  and 
kindly,  framed  in  a  youthful  beard — the  face  of  an 
apostle,  with  the  glow  of  faith  in  his  eyes.  And  I  was 
surprised  to  see  underneath  his  priest's  vestments  the 
hems  of  a  pair  of  red  trousers,  and  feet  shod  in  large 
muddy  military  boots. 

The  kneeling  figure  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  now 
stood  out  more  distinctly.  The  man  was  wearing  on  his 
shabby  infantry  coat  the  white  armlet  with  the  red  cross. 
He  must  have  been  a  priest,  for  I  could  distinguish  some 
traces  of  a  neglected  tonsure  among  his  brown  hair. 

The  two  repeated,  in  a  low  tone  by  turns,  words  of 


"In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs''       171 

prayer,  comfort,  repentance,  or  supplication,  harmonious 
Latin  phrases,  which  sounded  to  me  Hke  exquisite  music. 
And  as  an  accompaniment  in  the  distance,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Saint  Thierry  and  Berry-au-Bac,  the  deep  voice  of 
the  guns  muttered  ceaselessly. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  campaign  I  felt  a  kind  of 
poignant  melancholy.  For  the  first  time  I  felt  small  and 
miserable,  almost  a  useless  thing,  compared  with  those 
two  fine  priestly  figures  who  were  praying  in  the  solitude 
of  this  country  church  for  those  who  had  fallen  and 
were  falling  yonder  under  shot  and  shell. 

How  I  despised  and  upbraided  myself  at  such  mo- 
ments !  What  a  profound  disgust  I  felt  for  the  follies 
of  my  garrison  life,  its  gross  pleasures  and  silly  excesses ! 
I  was  ashamed  of  myself  when  I  reflected  that  death 
brushed  by  me  every  day,  and  that  I  might  disappear 
to-day  or  to-morrow,  after  so  many  ill-spent  and  un- 
profitable days. 

Without  any  efifort,  and  almost  in  spite  of  myself,  pious 
words  came  back  to  my  lips — those  words  that  my  dear 
mother  used  to  teach  me  on  her  knee  years  and  years 
ago.  And  I  felt  a  quiet  delight  in  the  almost  forgotten 
words  that  came  back  to  me : 

"Forgive  us  our  trespasses.  .  .  .  Pray  for  us,  poor 
sinners.  .  .  ." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  presently  go  away  a 
better  man  and  a  more  valiant  soldier.  And,  as  though 
to  encourage  and  bless  me,  a  faint  ray  of  sunshine  came 
through  the  window. 

''lie,  missa  est.  .  .  ."  The  priest  turned  round ;  and 
this  time  I  thought  his  eyes  rested  upon  me,  and  that 
the  look  was  a  benediction  and  an  absolution. 

But  suddenly  I  heard  in  the  alley  close  by  a  great  noise 
of  people  running  and  horses  stamping,  and  a  voice 
crying : 


172      '7w  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs" 

"Mount  horses!  .  .  .  Mount  horses!" 

I  was  sorry  to  leave  the  Httle  church  of  Pery ;  I  should 
so  much  have  liked  to  wait  until  those  two  priests  came 
out,  to  speak  to  them,  and  talk  about  other  things  than 
war,  massacres  and  pillage.  But  duty  called  me  to  my 
men,  my  horses,  and  to  battle. 

Shortly  afterwards,  as  I  passed  at  the  head  of  my 
troop  in  front  of  the  large  farm  where  the  ambulance 
of  the  division  was  quartered,  I  saw  my  abbe  coming  out 
of  a  barn,  with  his  sleeves  tucked  up  and  his  kepi  on  the 
side  of  his  head.  He  was  carrying  a  large  pail  of  milk. 
I  recognised  his  clear  look,  and  had  no  doubt  that  he 
recognised  me  too,  for  as  our  eyes  met  he  gave  me  a 
kindly  smile. 

My  heart  was  lighter  as  I  went  forward,  and  my  soul 
was  calmer. 

IV— "MAMAN  CHEVERET"— AND  THE 
CAVALRYMEN 

For  the  last  six  days  we  had  been  quartered  at  Mon- 
tigny-sur-Vesle,  a  pretty  little  village  half-way  up  a  hill- 
side on  the  heights,  20  kilometres  to  the  west  of  Rheims. 
There  we  enjoyed  a  little  rest  for  the  first  time  in  the 
campaign.  On  our  front  the  struggle  was  going  on  be- 
tween the  French  and  German  trenches,  and  the  employ- 
ment of  cavalry  was  impossible.  All  the  regiment  had 
to  do  was  to  supply  daily  two  troops  required  to  ensure 
the  connection  between  the  two  divisions  of  the  army 
corps. 

What  a  happiness  it  was  to  be  able  at  last  to  enjoy 
almost  perfect  rest!  What  a  delight  to  lie  down  every 
evening  in  a  good  bed  ;  not  to  get  up  before  seven  o'clock ; 
to  find  our  poor  horses  stabled  at  last  on  good  litter  in 
the  barns,  and  to  see  them  filling  out  daily  and  getting 
sleeker ! 


*'In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       173 

For  our  mess  we  had  the  good  luck  to  find  a  most 
charming  and  simple  welcome  at  the  house  of  good 
Monsieur  Cheveret.  That  kind  old  gentleman  did  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  supply  us  with  all  the  comforts  he 
could  dispose  of.  And  he  did  it  all  with  such  good 
grace  and  such  a  pleasant  smile  that  we  felt  at  ease  and 
at  home  at  once.  Madame  Cheveret,  whom  we  at  once 
called  "Maman  Cheveret,"  was  an  alert  little  old  lady 
who  trotted  about  all  day  long  in  quest  of  things  to  do 
for  us.  She  put  us  up  in  the  dining-room,  and  helped 
our  cook  to  clean  the  vegetables  and  to  superintend  the 
joints  and  sweets.  For  Gosset,  the  bold  Chasseur  ap- 
pointed to  preside  over  our  mess  arrangement,  was  a 
professional  in  the  culinary  art,  and  excelled  in  making 
everything  out  of  nothing;  so,  with  the  help  of  Maman 
Cheveret,  he  accomplished  wonders,  and  the  result  of  it 
all  was  that  we  began  to  be  enervated  by  the  delights  of 
this  new  Capua.     And  how  thoroughly  we  enjoyed  it! 

We  shared  our  Eden  with  two  other  squadrons  of 
our  regiment,  a  section  of  an  artillery  park,  and  a  divi- 
sional ambulance.  We  prayed  Heaven  to  grant  us  a  long 
stay  in  such  a  haven  of  repose. 

V_THE  SOLDIERS  AT  THE  ALTAR 

Now  one  morning,  after  countless  ablutions  with  hot 
water  and  a  clean  shave,  I  was  going,  with  brilliantly 
shining  boots,  down  the  steep  footpath  which  led  to  the 
little  house  of  our  good  Monsieur  Cheveret,  when  my 
attention  was  drawn  to  a  small  white  notice  posted  on 
the  door  of  the  church.    It  ran : 

"This  Evening  at  Six  O'clock, 
Benediction  of  the  Most  Holy  Sacrament." 


174      "-^^  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs'^ 

It  occurred  to  me  at  once  that  this  happy  idea  had 
been  conceived  by  the  Chaplain  of  the  Ambulance,  for 
until  then  the  church  had  been  kept  locked,  as  the  young 
parish  priest  had  been  called  up  by  the  mobilisation.  I 
made  haste  to  tell  our  Captain  and  my  comrades  the 
good  news,  and  we  all  determined  to  be  present  at  the 
Benediction  that  evening. 

At  half-past  five  our  ears  were  delighted  by  music 
such  as  we  had  not  been  accustomed  to  hear  for  a  very 
long  time.  In  the  deepening  twilight  some  invisible  hand 
was  chiming  the  bells  of  the  little  church.  How  deli- 
ciously  restful  they  were  after  the  loud  roar  of  the 
cannon  and  the  rattle  of  the  machine-guns !  Who  would 
have  thought  that  such  deep,  and  also  such  solemn, 
notes  could  come  from  so  small  a  steeple?  It  stirred  the 
heart  and  brought  tears  to  the  eyes,  like  some  of  Chopin's 
music.  Those  bells  seemed  to  speak  to  us,  they  seemed 
to  call  us  to  prayer  and  preach  courage  and  virtue  to  us. 

At  the  end  of  the  shady  walk  I  was  passing  down — 
whose  trees  formed  a  rustling  wall  on  either  side — ap- 
peared the  little  church,  with  its  slender  steeple.  It  stood 
out  in  clear  relief,  a  dark  blue,  almost  violet  silhouette 
against  the  purple  background  made  by  the  setting  sun. 
Some  dark  human  forms  were  moving  about  and  collect- 
ing around  the  low  arched  doorway.  Perhaps  these  were 
the  good  old  women  of  the  district  who  had  come  to 
pray  in  this  little  church  which  had  remained  closed  to 
them  for  nearly  two  months.  I  fancied  I  could  distin- 
guish them  from  where  I  was,  dignified  and  erect  in 
their  old-fashioned  mantles. 

But  as  soon  as  I  got  closer  to  them  I  found  I  was 
mistaken.  It  was  not  aged  and  pious  women  who  were 
hurrying  to  the  church  door,  but  a  group  of  silent  artil- 
lerymen wrapped  in  their  large  blue  caped  cloaks.  The 
bells  shook  out  their  solemn  notes,  and  seemed  to  be 


"in  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       175 

calling  others  to  come  too;  and  I  should  have  been  glad 
if  their  voices  had  been  heard,  for  I  was  afraid  the 
Chaplain's  appeal  would  hardly  be  heeded  and  that  the 
benches  of  the  little  church  would  be  three-parts 
empty. 

But  on  gently  pushing  the  door  open  I  found  at  once 
that  my  fears  were  baseless.  The  church  was  in  fact 
too  small  to  hold  all  the  soldiers,  who  had  come  long 
before  the  appointed  hour  as  soon  as  they  heard  the  bells 
begin.  And  now  that  I  had  no  fears  about  the  church 
being  empty  I  wondered  how  I  was  going  to  find  a  place 
myself.  I  stood  on  the  doorstep,  undecided,  on  tip-toe, 
looking  over  the  heads  of  all  those  standing  men  to  see 
whether  there  was  any  corner  unoccupied  where  I  could 
enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  unexpected  sight  in  peace. 

The  nave  was  almost  dark.  The  expense  of  lighting 
had  no  doubt  to  be  considered,  for  for  several  days  past 
no  candle  or  taper  was  to  be  had  for  money.  And  no 
doubt  the  kindness  of  a  motorist  of  the  Red  Cross  had 
been  appealed  to  for  the  supply  of  all  the  candles  which 
lit  up  the  altar.  This  was  indeed  resplendent.  The 
vestry  had  been  ransacked  for  candlesticks,  and  the 
tabernacle  was  surrounded  by  a  splendid  aureole  of  light. 
All  this  increased  the  touching  impression  I  felt  on 
entering. 

Against  the  brilliant  background  of  the  choir  stood  out 
the  black  forms  of  several  hundreds  of  men  standing  and 
looking  towards  the  altar.  Absolute  silence  reigned  over 
the  whole  congregation  of  soldiers.  And  yet  no  dis- 
cipline was  enforced;  there  was  no  superior  present  to 
impose  a  show  of  devotion.  Left  to  themselves,  they  all 
understood  what  they  had  to  do.  They  crowded  together, 
waiting  in  silence  and  without  any  impatience  for  the 
ceremony  to  begin. 


176      '7«  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs^' 
VI— ARTILLERYMEN   AT   HOLY  COMMUNION 

Suddenly  a  white  figure  came  towards  me  through  the 
crowded  ranks  of  soldiers.  He  extended  his  arms  in 
token  of  welcome,  and  I  at  once  recognised  the  Chaplain 
in  his  surplice.  His  face  was  beaming  with  pleasure,  and 
his  eyes  shone  behind  his  spectacles.  He  appeared  to  be 
supremely  happy. 

"This  way,  Monsieur  VOfficier,  this  way.  I  have 
thought  of  everything.  You  must  have  the  seat  of 
honour.    Follow  me." 

I  followed  the  holy  man,  who  elbowed  a  way  for  me 
up  the  crowded  aisle.  He  had  reserved  all  the  choir- 
stalls  for  the  officers.  Before  the  war  they  had  been 
occupied,  at  high  mass,  by  the  clergy,  the  choir,  and  the 
principal  members  of  the  congregation.  He  proudly 
showed  me  into  one  of  them,  and  I  felt  rather  embar- 
rassed at  finding  myself  suddenly  in  a  blaze  of  light 
between  an  artillery  lieutenant  and  a  surgeon-major. 

The  low  vestry  door  now  opened  and  a  very  unex- 
pected procession  appeared.  In  front  of  a  bearded  priest 
walked  four  artillerymen  in  uniform.  One  of  them  car- 
ried a  censer,  and  another  the  incense-box.  The  other 
two  walked  in  front  of  them,  arms  crossed  and  eyes 
front.  The  whole  procession  knelt  before  the  altar  with 
perfect  precision,  and  I  saw  beneath  the  priest's  vest- 
ments muddy  gaiters  of  the  same  kind  as  those  worn  by 
the  gunners. 

At  the  same  time  we  heard,  quite  close  to  us,  strains 
of  music  which  seemed  to  us  celestial.  In  the  dim  light 
I  had  not  noticed  the  harmonium,  but  now  I  could  dis- 
tinguish the  artist  who  was  enchanting  us  by  his  skill  in 
drawing  sweet  sounds  from  a  poor  worn  instrument.  He 
was  an  artillery  captain.  At  once  all  eyes  were  turned 
towards  him ;  we  were  all  enraptured.    None  of  us  dared 


'7n  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       177 

to  hope  that  we  should  lift  our  voices  in  the  hymns. 

The  organist  seemed  unconscious  of  his  surroundings. 
The  candle  placed  near  the  keyboard  cast  a  strange  light 
upon  the  most  expressive  of  heads.  Against  the  dark 
background  of  the  church  the  striking  features  of  a  noble 
face  were  thrown  into  strong  relief :  a  forehead  broad 
and  refined,  an  aristocratic  nose,  a  fair  moustache  turned 
up  at  the  ends,  and,  notably,  two  fine  blue  eyes,  which, 
without  a  glance  at  the  fingers  on  the  keys,  were  fixed  on 
the  vaulted  roof  as  though  seeking  inspiration  there. 

The  Chaplain,  turning  to  the  congregation,  then  said: 

"My  friends,  we  will  all  join  in  singing  the  O  Salu- 
iarisr 

The  harmonium  gave  the  first  notes,  and  I  braced  my- 
self to  endure  the  dreadful  discords  I  expected  from  this 
crowd  of  soldiers — mostly  reservists — who,  I  supposed, 
had  come  together  that  evening  mainly  out  of  curiosity. 

Judge  of  my  astonishment !  At  first  only  a  few  timid 
voices  joined  the  Chaplain's.  But  after  a  minute  or  so  a 
marvel  happened.  From  all  those  chests  came  a  volume 
of  sound  such  as  I  could  hardly  have  believed  possible. 
Who  will  say  then  that  our  dear  France  has  lost  her 
Faith?  Who  can  believe  it?  Every  one  of  these  men 
joined  in  singing  the  hymn,  and  not  one  of  them  seemed 
ignorant  of  the  Latin  words.  It  was  a  magnificent  choir, 
under  a  lofty  vault,  chanting  with  the  fervour  of  abso- 
lute sincerity.  There  was  not  one  discordant  note,  not 
one  voice  out  of  tune,  to  spoil  its  perfect  harmony. 

Who  can  believe  that  men,  many  of  them  more  than 
thirty  years  old,  would  remember  all  the  words  unless 
they  had  been  brought  up  in  the  faith  of  their  ancestors 
and  still  held  it? 

I  could  not  help  turning  to  look  at  them.  In  the  light 
of  the  candles  their  faces  appeared  to  be  wonderfully 
transfigured.    Not  one  of  them  expressed  irony  or  even 


178      ''In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs" 

indifference.  What  a  fine  picture  it  would  have  made  for 
a  Rembrandt!  The  bodies  of  the  men  were  mvisible 
in  the  darkness  of  the  nave,  and  their  heads  alone 
emerged  from  the  gloom.  The  effect  was  grand  enough 
to  fascinate  the  most  sceptical  of  painters ;  it  soothed  and 
charmed  one  and  wiped  out  all  the  miseries  that  the  war 
had  left  in  its  wake.  Men  like  these  would  be  equal  to 
anything,  ready  for  anything;  and  I  myself  should  much 
have  liked  to  see  a  Monsieur  Homais  hidden  away  in 
some  corner  of  that  church. 

Meanwhile  the  sacred  Office  was  proceeding  at  the 
altar  At  any  other  time  we  might  have  smiled  at  the 
siffht  of  that  soldier-priest  served  by  choristers  of  thirty- 
five  in  uniform;  at  that  ceremony  it  was  inexpressibly 
touching  and  attractive,  and  it  was  especially  delightful 
to  see  how  carefully  and  precisely  each  performed  his 
function  that  the  ceremony  might  not  lack  its  accus- 
tomed pomp. 

VII-THE  WARRIORS  AND  THE  ROSARY 

When  the  singing  had  ceased  the  Chaplain  went  up  to 
the  holy  table.  In  a  voice  full  of  feeling  he  tried  to 
express  his  gratitude  and  happiness  to  all  those  brave 
fellows.  I  should  not  imagine  him  to  be  a  brilliant 
speaker  at  the  best  of  times,  but  on  that  occasion  the 
worthy  man  was  completely  unintelligible  His  happi- 
ness was  choking  him.  He  tried  in  vain  to  find  the  words 
he  wanted,  used  the  wrong  ones,  and  only  confused  him- 
self by  trying  to  get  them  right.  But  nobody  had  the 
least  desire  to  laugh  when,  to  conclude  his  address,  he 
said  with  a  sigh  of  relief :  ,     ^       .  ., 

"And  now  we  will  tell  twenty  beads  of  the  rosary, 
ten  for  the  success  of  our  arms,  and  the  other  ten  m 
memory  of  soldiers  who  have  died  on  the  field  of  hon- 
our.  .  .  .  Hail!  Mary,  full  of  grace.  .  .  ." 


'7n  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs"       179 

I  looked  round  the  church  once  more,  and  every  one's 
lips  were  moving  silently  accompanying  the  priest's 
words.  Opposite  us  I  saw  the  artillery  captain  take  a 
rosary  out  of  his  pocket  and  tell  the  beads  with  dreamy 
eyes ;  and  when  the  Chaplain  came  to  the  sentence  "Holy 
Mary,  Mother  of  God,  .  .  ."  hundreds  of  voices  burst 
forth,  deep  and  manly  voices,  full  of  fervour  which 
seemed  to  proclaim  their  faith  in  Him  Who  was  present 
before  them  on  the  altar,  and  also  to  promise  self-sacri- 
fice and  devotion  to  that  other  sacred  thing,  their 
Country. 

Then,  after  the  Tantum  ergo  had  been  sung  with 
vigour,  the  priest  held  up  the  monstrance,  and  I  saw 
all  those  soldiers  with  one  accord  kneel  down  on  the 
stone  floor  and  bow  their  heads.  The  silence  was  im- 
pressive ;  not  a  word,  not  a  cough,  and  not  a  chair  moved. 
I  had  never  seen  such  devotion  in  any  church.  Some 
spiritual  power  was  brooding  over  the  assemblage  and 
bowing  all  those  heads  in  token  of  submission  and  hope. 
Good,  brave  soldiers  of  France,  how  we  love  and  honour 
you  at  such  moments,  and  what  confidence  your  chiefs 
must  feel  when  they  lead  such  men  to  battle ! 

We  sat  at  table  around  the  lamp,  and  good  Maman 
Cheveret  had  just  brought  in  the  steaming  soup.  Right 
away  towards  the  east  we  heard  the  dull  roll  of  the 
cannon.  Good  Monsieur  Cheveret  had  just  brought  up 
from  his  cellar  a  venerable  bottle  of  his  best  Burgundy, 
and,  at  the  invitation  of  the  Captain,  he  sat  down  to 
drink  a  glass  with  us,  smoking  his  cherry-wood  pipe  and 
listening  with  delight  to  our  merry  chat. 

Gosset  was  in  his  kitchen  next  door  preparing  a  deli- 
cious piece  of  beef  a  la  mode  and  at  the  same  time  telling 
Maman  Cheveret  about  his  exploits  of  the  past  month. 

We  heard  the  men  of  the  first  troop  cracking  their 


i8o      "In  the  Field  With  the  French  Chasseurs" 

jokes  in  the  yard  as  they  ate  their  rations  and  emptied 
their  pannikin  of  wine  under  a  brilliant  moon. 

Down  in  the  valley  on  the  banks  of  the  murmuring 
Vesle,  songs  and  laughter  floated  up  to  us  from  the 
artillery  park. 

And  the  village  itself,  shining  under  the  starlit  sky, 
seemed  bathed  in  an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness,  courage 
and  confidence. 


"FIELD  HOSPITAL  AND  FLYING 
COLUMN"— IN  RUSSIA 

Journal  of  an  English  Nursing  Sister 

Told  by  Violetta  Tliur start 

This  English  woman  relates  her  experiences  as  an  eye  witness 
and  participant.  "For  me,"  she  says,  "the  beginning  of  the  War 
was  a  torchlight  tattoo  on  Salisbury  Plain.  It  was  fascinating 
to  watch  the  stately  entrance  into  the  field  of  Lancers,  Irish 
Rifles,  Welsh  Fusiliers,  Grenadiers  and  many  another  gallant 
regiment,  each  marching  into  the  field  in  turn  to  the  swing  of 
their  own  particular  regimental  tune  until  they  were  all  drawn 
up  in  order."  She  then  tells  about  "The  Beginning  of  It  All" ; 
"Her  Experiences  in  Charleroi  and  Roundabout" ;  "The  Return 
to  Brussels";  "Our  Work  in  Warsaw";  "The  Bombardment  of 
Lodz,"  and  "The  Trenches  at  Radzivilow."  These  and  many 
other  stories  have  been  collected  into  a  volume  under  the  title 
"Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column."  The  stories  told  here 
are  by  permission  of  her  publishers,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

*  I— WITH  GRAND  DUCHESS  CYRIL  IN 
WARSAW 

The  Grand  Duchess  Cyril  happened  to  be  staying  at 
the  Hotel  Bristol  too.  Like  most  of  the  other  members 
of  the  Russian  Royal  Family,  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war  she  has  been  devoting  her  whole  time  to  helping 
wounded  soldiers,  and  is  the  center  of  a  whole  network 
of  activities.  She  has  a  large  hospital  in  Warsaw  for 
men  and  officers,  a  very  efficient  ambulance  train  that 
can  hold  800  wounded,  and  one  of  the  best  surgeons  in 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
from   original   sources. 

181 


i82  ''Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column'' 

Petrograd  working  on  it,  and  a  provision  train  which 
sets  up  feeding-stations  for  the  troops  and  for  refugees 
in  places  where  food  is  very  scarce,  which  last  is  an  in- 
describable boon  to  all  who  benefit  by  it.  The  Grand 
Duchess's  hospital  in  Warsaw,  like  every  other  just  at 
this  time,  was  crammed  to  overflowing  with  wounded 
from  Lodz,  and  the  staff  was  inadequate  to  meet  this  un- 
expected need. 

The  Grand  Duchess  met  Princess  V.  in  the  lounge 
just  as  we  arrived  from  Lodz,  and  begged  that  our  Col- 
umn might  go  and  help  for  a  time  at  her  hospital.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  next  day,  the  consent  of  the  Red  Cross 
Office  having  been  obtained,  we  went  off  to  the  Grand 
Duchess's  hospital  for  a  time  to  supplement  and  relieve 
their  staff.  They  met  us  with  open  arms,  as  they  were 
all  very  tired  and  very  thankful  for  our  help.  They 
only  had  room  for  fifty  patients  and  had  had  about  150 
brought  in.  Fortunately  the  Grand  Duchess's  ambulance 
train  had  just  come  back  to  Warsaw,  so  the  most  con- 
valescent of  the  old  cases  were  taken  off  to  Petrograd, 
but  even  then  we  were  working  in  the  operating-theater 
till  twelve  or  one  every  night.  They  hoped  we  had  come 
for  two  or  three  weeks  and  were  very  disgusted  when, 
in  five  days'  time,  the  order  came  for  us  to  go  off  to 
Skiernevice  with  the  automobiles.  The  hospital  staff 
gave  us  such  a  nice  send-off,  and  openly  wished  that 
they  belonged  to  a  flying  column  too.  I  must  say  it  was 
very  interesting  these  startings  off  into  the  unknown, 
with  our  little  fleet  of  automobiles  containing  ourselves 
and  our  equipment.  We  made  a  very  flourishing  start  out 
of  Warsaw,  but  very  soon  plunged  into  an  appalling  mess 
of  mud.  One  could  really  write  an  epic  poem  on  Rus- 
sian roads.  At  the  best  of  times  they  are  awful ;  on  this 
particular  occasion  they  were  full  of  large  holes  made 
by  shells  and  covered  with  thick,  swampy  mud  that  had 


''Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column"  183 

been  snow  the  week  before.    It  delayed  us  so  much  that 
we  did  not  get  to  Skiernevice  till  late  that  night. 

II— CAMPING  IN  THE  TZAR'S  SHOOTING  BOX 

Skiernevice  is  a  small  town,  important  chiefly  as  a 
railway  junction,  as  two  lines  branch  off  here  towards 
Germany  and  Austria  northwest  and  southwest.  The 
Tsar  has  a  shooting-box  here  in  the  midst  of  beautiful 
woods,  and  two  rooms  had  been  set  apart  in  this  house 
for  our  Column. 

We  arrived  late  in  the  evening,  secretly  hoping  that 
we  should  get  a  night  in  bed,  and  were  rather  rejoiced 
at  finding  that  there  were  no  wounded  there  at  all  at 
present,  though  a  large  contingent  was  expected  later. 
So  we  camped  in  the  two  rooms  allotted  to  us :  Princess, 
Sister  G.,  and  myself  in  one,  and  all  the  men  of  the 
party  in  the  other.  No  wounded  arrived  for  two  or 
three  days,  and  we  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  rest  and, 
above  all,  the  beautiful  woods.  How  delicious  the  pines 
smelt  after  that  horrible  Lodz.  Twice  a  day  we  used 
to  go  down  the  railway  line,  where  there  was  a  restau- 
rant car  for  the  officers;  it  seemed  odd  to  be  eating  our 
meals  in  the  Berlin-Warsaw  International  Restaurant 
Car.  There  was  always  something  interesting  going  on 
at  the  station.  One  day  a  regiment  from  Warsaw  had 
just  been  detrained  there  when  a  German  Taube  came 
sailing  over  the  station  throwing  down  grenades.  Every 
man  immediately  began  to  fire  up  in  the  air,  and  we  ran 
much  more  risk  of  being  killed  by  a  Russian  bullet  than 
by  the  German  Taube.  It  was  like  being  in  the  middle 
of  a  battle,  and  I  much  regretted  I  had  not  my  camera 
with  me.  Another  day  all  the  debris  of  a  battlefield  had 
been  picked  up  and  was  lying  in  piles  in  the  station  wait- 
ing to  be  sent  off  to  Warsaw.     There  were  truck-loads 


184  "Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column" 

of  stuff;  German  and  Russian  overcoats,  boots,  rifles, 
water-bottles,  caps,  swords,  and  helmets  and  all  sorts 
of  miscellaneous  kit. 

We  often  saw  gangs  of  prisoners,  mostly  Austrian, 
but  some  German,  and  they  always  seemed  well  treated 
by  the  Russians.  The  Austrian  prisoners  nearly  always 
looked  very  miserable,  cold,  hungry,  and  worn  out.  Once 
we  saw  a  spy  being  put  into  the  train  to  go  to  Warsaw, 
I  suppose  to  be  shot — an  old  Jewish  man  with  white  hair 
in  a  long,  black  gaberdine,  strips  of  colored  paper  still 
in  his  hand  with  which  he  had  been  caught  signaling  to 
the  Germans.  Hozv  angry  the  soldiers  were  with  him — 
one  gave  him  a  great  punch  in  the  back,  another  kicked 
him  up  into  the  train,  and  a  soldier  on  the  platform  who 
saw  what  was  happening  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  and 
was  just  in  time  to  give  him  a  parting  hit  on  the  shoul- 
der. The  old  man  did  not  cry  out  or  attempt  to  retaliate ; 
but  his  face  was  ashy-white  with  terror,  and  one  of  his 
hands  was  dripping  with  blood.  It  was  a  very  horrible 
sight  and  haunted  me  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  It  was 
quite  right  that  he  should  be  shot  as  a  spy,  but  the  un- 
necessary cruelty  first  sickened  me. 

There  were  masses  of  troops  constantly  going  up  to 
the  positions  from  Skiernevice,  and  as  there  was  a  short 
cut  through  the  park,  which  they  generally  used,  we 
could  see  all  that  was  going  on  from  our  rooms.  On 
Sunday  it  was  evident  that  another  big  battle  was  pend- 
ing. Several  batteries  went  up  through  our  woods,  each 
gun-carriage  almost  up  to  its  axles  in  mud,  dragged  by 
eight  strong  horses.  They  were  followed  by  a  regiment 
of  Cossacks,  looking  very  fierce  in  their  great  black  fur 
head-dresses,  huge  sheep-skin  coats,  and  long  spears. 
There  was  one  small  Cossack  boy  who  was  riding  out 
with  his  father  to  the  front  and  who  could  not  have  been 
more  than  eleven  or  twelve  years  old.    There  are  quite 


"Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column"  185 

a  number  of  young  boys  at  the  front  who  make  them- 
selves very  useful  in  taking  messages,  carrying  ammu- 
nition, and  so  on.  We  had  one  little  boy  of  thirteen  in 
the  hospital  at  Warsaw,  who  was  badly  wounded  while 
carrying  a  message  to  the  colonel,  and  he  was  after- 
wards awarded  the  St.  George's  Cross. 

There  were  enormous  numbers  of  other  troops  too: 
Siberians,  Tartars,  Asiatic  Russians  from  Turkestan, 
Caucasians  in  their  beautiful  black-and-silver  uniforms. 
Little  Russians  from  the  south,  and  great  fair-haired 
giants  from  the  north. 

The  little  Catholic  Church  in  the  village  was  full  to 
overflowing  at  the  early  Mass  that  Sunday  morning  with 
men  in  full  marching  kit  on  their  way  out  to  the  trenches. 
A  very  large  number  of  them  made  their  Confession  and 
received  the  Blessed  Sacrament  before  starting  out,  and 
for  many,  many  of  these  it  was  their  Viaticum,  for  the 
great  battle  began  that  afternoon,  and  few  of  the  gallant 
fellows  we  saw  going  up  to  the  trenches  that  morning 
ever  returned  again. 

That  afternoon  the  Prince  had  business  at  the  Staff 
Headquarters  out  beyond  Lowice,  and  I  went  out  there 
in  the  automobile  with  him  and  Monsieur  Goochkoff. 
We  went  through  Lowice  on  the  way  there.  The  little 
town  had  been  severely  bombarded  (it  was  taken  two 
or  three  days  later  by  the  Germans),  and  we  met  many 
of  the  peasants  hurrying  away  from  it  carrying  their 
possessions  with  them.  You  may  know  the  peasants  of 
Lowice  anywhere  by  their  distinctive  dress,  which  is  the 
most  brilliantly  colored  peasant  dress  imaginable.  The 
women  wear  gorgeous  petticoats  of  orange,  red  and  blue, 
or  green  in  vertical  stripes  and  a  cape  of  the  same  ma- 
terial over  their  shoulders,  a  bright-colored  shawl,  gen- 
erally orange,  on  their  heads,  and  brilliaiit  bootlaces — 
magenta  is  the  color  most  affected.    The  men,  too,  wear 


1 86  ''Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column'' 

trousers  of  the  same  kind  of  vertical  stripes,  generally 
of  orange  and  black.  These  splashes  of  bright  color 
are  delicious  in  this  sad,  gray  country. 

Ill— THE  GENERAL  STAFF  AT  RADZIVILOW 
CASTLE 

The  General  of  the  Staff  was  quartered  at  Radzivilow 
Castle,  and  I  explored  the  place  while  the  Prince  and 
Monsieur  Goochkoff  did  their  business.  The  old,  dark 
hall,  with  armor  hanging  on  the  walls  and  worm-eaten 
furniture  covered  with  priceless  tapestry,  would  have 
made  a  splendid  picture.  A  huge  log  fire  burning  on 
the  open  hearth  lighted  up  the  dark  faces  of  the  two 
Turkestan  soldiers  who  were  standing  on  guard  at  the 
door.  In  one  corner  a  young  lieutenant  was  taking  in- 
terminable messages  from  the  field  telephone,  and  under 
the  v/indow  another  Turkestan  soldier  stood  sharpening 
his  dagger.  The  Prince  asked  him  what  he  was  doing, 
and  his  dark  face  lighted  up.  "Every  night  at  eight," 
he  said,  still  sharpening  busily,  "I  go  out  and  kill  some 
Germans."  The  men  of  this  Turkestan  regiment  are  said 
to  be  extraordinarily  brave  men.  They  do  not  care  at 
all  about  a  rifle,  but  prefer  to  be  at  closer  quarters  with 
the  enemy  with  their  two-edged  dagger,  and  the  Germans 
like  them  as  little  as  they  like  our  own  Gurkhas  and 
Sikhs. 

The  next  day  the  wounded  began  to  arrive  in  Skier- 
nevice,  and  in  two  days'  time  the  temporary  hospital  was 
full. 

The  Tsar  had  a  private  theater  at  Skiernevice  with  a 
little  separate  station  of  its  own  about  200  yards  farther 
down  the  line  than  the  ordinary  station,  and  in  many 
ways  this  made  quite  a  suitable  hospital  except  for  the 
want  of  a  proper  water-supply. 


"Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column'*  187 

The  next  thing  we  heard  was  that  the  Russian  General 
had  decided  to  fall  back  once  more,  and  we  must  be 
prepared  to  move  at  any  moment. 

AH  that  day  we  heard  violent  cannonading  going  on 
and  all  the  next  night,  though  the  hospital  was  already 
full,  the  little  country  carts  came  in  one  after  another 
filled  with  wounded.  They  were  to  only  stay  one  night, 
as  in  the  morning  ambulance  trains  were  coming  to  take 
them  all  away,  and  we  had  orders  to  follow  as  soon  as 
the  last  patient  had  gone.  Another  operating-  and  dress- 
ing-room was  quickly  improvised,  but  even  with  the  two 
going  hard  all  night  it  was  difficult  to  keep  pace  with 
the  number  brought  in. 

The  scenery  had  never  been  taken  down  after  the  last 
dramatic  performance  played  in  the  theater,  and  wounded 
men  lay  everywhere  between  the  wings  and  drop  scenes. 
The  auditorium  was  packed  so  closely  that  you  could 
hardly  get  between  the  men  without  treading  on  some 
one's  hands  and  feet  as  they  lay  on  the  floor.  The  light 
had  given  out — in  the  two  dressing-rooms  there  were 
oil-lamps,  but  in  the  rest  of  the  place  we  had  to  make  do 
with  candle-ends  stuck  into  bottles.  The  foyer  had  been 
made  into  a  splendid  kitchen,  where  hot  tea  and  boil- 
ing soup  could  be  got  all  night  through.  This  depart- 
ment was  worked  by  the  local  Red  Cross  Society,  and  was 
a  great  credit  to  them. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  first  ambulance 
train  came  in,  and  was  quickly  filled  with  patients.  We 
heard  that  the  Germans  were  now  very  near,  and  hoped 
we  should  manage  to  get  away  all  the  wounded  before 
they  arrived. 

The  second  train  came  up  about  eleven,  and  by  that 
time  a  fierce  rifle  encounter  was  going  on.  From  the 
hospital  window  we  could  see  the  Russian  troops  firing 
from  the  trenches  near  the  railway.     Soon  there  was  a 


1 88  ''Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column'' 

violent  explosion  that  shook  the  place ;  this  was  the  Rus- 
sians blowing  up  the  railway  bridge  on  the  western  side 
of  the  station. 

The  second  train  went  off,  and  there  were  very  few 
patients  left  now,  though  some  were  still  being  brought 
in  at  intervals  by  the  Red  Cross  carts.  Our  automo- 
biles had  started  off  to  Warsaw  with  some  wounded  offi- 
cers, but  the  rest  of  the  column  had  orders  to  go  to 
Zyradow  by  the  last  train  to  leave  Skiernevice. 

The  sanitars  now  began  to  pack  up  the  hospital;  we 
did  not  mean  to  leave  anything  behind  for  the  enemy  if 
we  could  help  it.  The  few  bedsteads  were  taken  to 
pieces  and  tied  up,  the  stretchers  put  together  and  the 
blankets  tied  up  in  bundles.  When  the  last  ambulance 
train  came  up  about  2  p.m.  the  patients  were  first  put 
in,  and  then  every  portable  object  that  could  be  removed 
was  packed  into  the  train  too.  At  the  last  moment,  when 
the  train  was  just  about  to  start,  one  of  the  sanitars 
ran  back  and  triumphantly  brought  out  a  pile  of  dirty 
soup  plates  to  add  to  the  collection.  Nothing  was  left 
in  the  hospital  but  two  dead  men  we  had  not  time  to 
bury. 

The  wounded  were  all  going  to  Warsaw  and  the  other 
Russian  Sisters  went  on  in  the  train  with  them.  But 
our  destination  was  Zyradow,  only  the  next  station  but 
one  down  the  line. 

IV— ADVENTURES  OF  A  PRINCESS  IN  POLAND 

When  we  arrived  at  Zyradow  about  three  o'clock  we 
were  looking  forward  to  a  bath  and  tea  and  bed,  as  we 
had  been  up  all  night  and  were  very  tired ;  but  the  train 
most  unkindly  dropped  us  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  station,  and  we  had  to  get  out  all  our  equip- 
ment and  heavy  cases  of   dressings,  and  put  them  at 


"Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column"  189 

the  side  of  the  line,  while  Julian,  the  Prince's  soldier 
servant,  went  off  to  try  and  find  a  man  and  a  cart  for 
the  things.  There  was  a  steady  downpour  of  rain,  and 
we  were  soaked  by  the  time  he  came  back  saying  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  had  at  all.  The  station  was  all 
in  crumbling  ruins,  so  we  could  not  leave  the  things 
there,  and  our  precious  dressings  were  beginning  to  get 
wet.  Finally  we  got  permission  to  put  them  in  a  closed 
cinema  theater  near  the  station,  but  it  was  dark  by  that 
time,  and  we  were  wet  and  cold  and  began  once  more  to 
center  our  thoughts  on  baths  and  tea.  We  were  a  small 
party — only  six  of  us — Princess,  we  two  Sisters,  Colo- 
nel S.,  a  Russian  dresser,  and  Julian.  We  caught  a  local 
Red  Grosser.  "Where  is  the  hotel?"  "There  is  no 
hotel  here."  "Where  can  we  lodge  for  to-night?"  "I 
don't  know  where  you  could  lodge."  "Where  is  the  Red 
Cross  Bureau?"  asked  Princess,  in  desperation.  "About 
a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk.  I  will  show  you  the  way." 
We  got  to  the  Red  Cross  Bureau  to  find  that  Monsieur 
Goochkoff  had  not  yet  arrived,  though  he  was  expected, 
and  they  could  offer  no  solution  of  our  difficulties,  except 
to  advise  us  to  go  to  the  Factory  Hospital  and  see  if 
they  could  make  any  arrangement  for  us.  The  Matron 
there  was  very  kind,  and  telephoned  to  every  one  she 
could  think  of,  and  finally  got  a  message  that  we  were 
expected,  and  were  to  sleep  at  the  Reserve.  So  we 
trudged  once  more  through  the  mud  and  rain.  The  "Re- 
serve" was  two  small,  empty  rooms,  where  thirty  Sis- 
ters were  going  to  pass  the  night.  They  had  no  beds, 
and  not  even  straw,-  but  were  just  going  to  lie  on  the 
floor  in  their  clothes.  There  was  obviously  no  room 
for  six  more  of  us,  and  finally  we  went  back  once  more 
to  the  Red  Cross  Bureau.  Princess  seized  an  empty 
room,  and  announced  that  we  were  going  to  sleep  in  it. 
We  were  told  we  couldn't,  as  it  had  been  reserved  for 


190  "Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column" 

somebody  else ;  but  we  didn't  care,  and  got  some  patients* 
stretchers  from  the  depot  and  lay  down  on  them  in  our 
wet  clothes  just  as  we  were.  In  the  middle  of  the  night 
the  "somebody"  for  whom  the  room  had  been  kept  ar- 
rived, strode  into  the  room,  and  turned  up  the  electric 
light.  The  others  were  really  asleep,  and  I  pretended 
to  be.  He  had  a  good  look  at  us,  and  then  strode  out 
again  grunting.  We  woke  up  every  five  minutes,  it  was 
so  dreadfully  cold,  and  though  we  were  so  tired,  I  was 
not  sorry  when  it  was  time  to  get  up. 

We  had  breakfast  at  a  dirty  little  restaurant  in  the 
town,  and  then  got  a  message  from  the  Red  Cross  that 
there  would  be  nothing  for  us  to  do  that  day,  but  that 
we  were  probably  going  to  be  sent  to  Radzowill  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  So  we  decided  to  go  off  to  the  Factory 
Hospital  and  see  if  we  could  persuade  the  Matron  to 
let  us  have  a  bath  there. 

Zyradow  is  one  very  large  cotton  and  woollen  factory, 
employing  about  5,000  hands.  In  Russia  it  is  the  good 
law  that  for  every  hundred  workmen  employed  there 
shall  be  one  hospital  bed  provided.  In  the  small  fac- 
tories a  few  beds  in  the  local  hospital  are  generally  sub- 
sidized, in  larger  ones  they  usually  find  it  more  con- 
venient to  have  their  own.  So  here  there  was  a  very  nice 
little  hospital  with  fifty  beds,  which  had  been  stretched 
now  to  hold  twice  as  many  more,  as  a  great  many 
wounded  had  to  be  sent  in  here.  The  Matron  is  a  Pole 
of  Scottish  extraction,  and  spoke  fluent  but  quite  for- 
eign English  with  a  strong  Scotch  accent.  There  are  a 
good  many  Scotch  families  here,  who  came  over  and 
settled  in  Poland  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  who 
are  all  engaged  in  different  departments  in  the  factory. 
She  was  kindness  itself,  and  gave  us  tea  first  and  then 
prepared  a  hot  bath  for  us  all  in  turn.  We  got  rid  of 
most  of  our  tormentors  and  were  at  peace  once  more. 


"Field  Hospital  and  Flying  Column"  191 

As  we  left  the  hospital  we  met  three  footsore  soldiers 
whose  boots  were  absolutely  worn  right  through.  They 
were  coming  up  to  the  hospital  to  see  if  the  Matron  had 
any  dead  men's  boots  that  would  fit  them.  It  sounded 
rather  gruesome — but  she  told  us  that  that  was  quite  a 
common  errand.  The  Russian  military  boots  are  ex- 
cellent, but,  of  course,  all  boots  wear  out  very  quickly 
under  such  trying  circumstances  of  roads  and  v/eather. 
They  are  top  boots,  strong  and  waterproof,  and  very 
often  made  by  the  men  themselves.  The  uniform,  too, 
is  very  practical  and  so  strong  that  the  men  have  told 
me  that  carpets  are  made  from  the  material.  The  color 
is  browner  than  our  own  khaki — and  quite  different  both 
from  the  German,  which  is  much  grayer,  and  the  Aus- 
trian, which  is  almost  blue.  I  heard  in  Belgium  that  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  German  soldiers  were  constantly 
mistaken  for  our  men. 


AN  UNCENSORED  DIARY— FROM 
THE  CENTRAL  EMPIRES 

By  Ernesta  Drinker  Bullitt,  An  American  Woman  vh 
the  Diplomatic  Circles  in  Germany  and  Austria 

This  is  one  of  the  most  delightfully  interesting  narratives  in 
the  entire  War.  It  is  the  diary  of  an  American  woman  with  a 
charming  sense  of  humor.  Mrs.  Bullitt  accompanied  her  hus- 
band on  his  interviews  with  the  diplomatists  as  special  corre- 
spondent with  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger.  Her  conversa- 
tions with  historical  personages  give  one  an  intimate  ac 
quaintanceship  with  the  great  characters  in  the  world's  traged> 
This  American  woman  tells  how  she  dined  with  von  Bissing, 
Governor  of  Belgium ;  Zimmerman,  "the  busiest  man  in  the 
German  Empire,"  discussed  the  War  with  her;  Countess  von 
Bernstorfi  and  Baroness  von  Bissing  asked  her  to  tea;  ambas- 
sadors and  statesmen  parleyed  with  her.  She  recorded  her 
daily  experiences  without  any  thought  of  their  future  publica- 
tion. It  stands  unique  as  a  record  written  entirely  within  the 
lines  of  the  Central  Empires.  Brilliant  sketches  from  this  diary 
are  here  reprinted  by  the  authority  of  the  publishers :  Double- 
day,  Page  and  Company:  Copyright  1917. 

I— WITH  LETTERS  FROM  COUNT 
BERNSTORFF 

Copenhagen,  May  14,  IQ16. 

Once  upon  a  time  .  .  .  before  the  war,  one  went 
abroad  with  no  more  preparation  than  a  steamer  ticket 
and  an  American  Express  check  or  two.  Two  days  ago, 
we  undertook  to  go  from  Holland  to  Denmark,  via  Ger- 
many. Before  daring  to  approach  Bentheim,  the  German 
frontier,  we  were  equipped  with  passports,  thrice  vised; 

192 


An  Uncensored  Diary  193 

a  special  letter  of  identification  from  the  Department  of 
State,  birth  certificates,  letters  to  the  frontier  authorities 
from  Count  Bernstorff  and  the  German  Minister  at  The 
Hague,  eighty-seven  other  letters  of  introduction,  two 
letters  of  credit,  and  a  Philadelphia  police  card.  .  .  . 

II— AT  THE  AMERICAN  EMBASSY  IN 
COPENHAGEN 

May  2^d. 

Denmark  is  hospitable,  inexpensive,  and  friendly.  We 
iiave  seen  the  Egans  frequently.  They  have  been  more 
than  kind.  Mr.  Egan  has  been  in  Denmark  eleven  years 
— a  longer  period  than  any  other  diplomat  in  our  service 
to-day  has  held  a  post.  By  common  consent,  he  is  the 
most  popular  diplomat  in  Denmark.  The  other  Ministers 
keep  dashing  in  and  out,  getting  advice  from  Mr. 
Egan.  ... 

Among  the  other  qualities  of  a  perfect  diplomat  which 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Egan  possess,  they  have  that  of  never 
making  a  *'break."  Therefore,  they  gave  us  (principally 
me)  what  we  needed — advice  as  to  caution  in  speech,  be- 
havior, facial  expression,  and  etiquette,  also  warning  us 
against  writing  anything  down  on  paper.  It's  going  to 
be  hard  on  me.  I  never  was  born  to  be  indefinite.  I  am 
practising  conversing  diplomatically. 

"Mrs.  Bullitt,  Verdun  has  been  taken  and  Paris  is  about 
to  surrender." 

"Really?  How  curious.  Battles  are  so  interesting, 
aren't  they  ?'* 

"Mrs.  Bullitt,  if  it  were  not  for  American  ammuni- 
tion, the  war  would  have  ended  in  six  months." 

"Yes,  battles  are  dangerous,  aren't  they?"  Whereas, 
I  might  mention  our  Spanish  war  and  certain  famous 
German  munition  factories.  So,  the  crest  of  idiotic  amia- 
bility being  reached,  we  move  on  to  the  weather. 


194  -^w  Uncensored  Diary 

Count  Szechenyi,  the  Austro-Hungarian  Minister, 
thinks  it  would  be  a  good  plan  for  us  to  go  to  Vienna 
and  Pest,  as  so  little  has  been  seen  of  them  during  the 
war.  He  has  very  kindly  written  to  people  there  that  we 
are  coming.  I  played  tennis  with  him  this  afternoon  at 
the  club,  he  in  his  suspenders  and  monocle,  and  I  in 
street  clothes,  with  a  pair  of  borrowed  tennis  shoes  two 
inches  too  long  on  my  feet,  and  a  racket  like  a  spoon,  as 
a  means  of  defence,  in  my  hand.  .  .  . 

Ill— WITH  AMBASSADOR  GERARD  IN  BERLIN 

Hotel  Esplanade,  Berlin,  May  2gth. 

We  got  to  Berlin.  I  must  say  I  should  have  liked  to 
wrap  up  in  the  American  flag  and  sleep  on  Mr.  Gerard's 
doorstep  myself.  The  inspection  this  time  was  really  too 
disgusting  to  repeat.  I  decided  that,  if  I  ever  again  heard 
any  one  say:  "It's  our  orders,"  I  should  kill  him.  Or- 
ders apparently  mean :  Be  as  nasty  to  the  man  who  can't 
hit  you  back  as  your  imagination  will  allow.  .  .  . 

We  lunched  at  the  Embassy  the  day  after  we  got  here. 
Mrs.  Gerard  is  charming  and  Mr.  Gerard  one  of  the  most 
amusing  men  I  ever  met.  Brusque,  frank,  quick-witted, 
a  typically  judicial  mind,  and  a  typically  undiplomatic 
manner,  he  is  the  last  person  in  the  world  a  German 
would  understand.  His  dry,  slangy,  American  humor, 
his  sudden  lapses  into  the  comic  in  moments  of  solemnity, 
his  irreverence  for  the  great,  shock  the  worthy  German. 
That  he  treats  the  Emperor  in  any  other  way  than  as  a 
business  acquaintance  is  most  unlikely.  .  .  . 

The  Embassy  is  filled  with  Harvard  secretaries,  whose 
lips,  as  Mr  Egan  says,  are  still  wet  with  the  milk  of 
Groton.  The  ballroom  is  bulging  with  stenographers. 
Never  did  the  world  see  its  few  remaining  diplomats  so 
overworked.     Instead  of  coming  down  and  reading  the 


An  Uncensored  Diary  195 

papers  for  two  hours  a  day,  they  now  all  work  morn- 
ings, afternoons,  and  sometimes  evenings. 

IV— AT  TEA  WITH  BARON  ROEDER 

June  ^d. 

To-day,  the  flags  are  all  out  for  the  naval  victory,  even 
the  trams  and  buses  are  decorated.  The  Germans  didn't 
wish  to  celebrate  until  they  were  quite  sure.  They've 
made  one  or  two  mistakes,  so  they  were  cautious  this 
time.  The  school-children  take  a  real  interest  in  Ger- 
man victories.  They  get  a  holiday  on  the  strength  of  one, 
and  they  measure  the  victory  only  by  the  length  of  their 
holiday.  The  joy  is  slightly  adulterated  by  having  to  go 
to  school  first  and  listen  to  a  careful  explanation  of  what 
they  are  about  to  celebrate.  Their  fondness  for  Hinden- 
burg  is  quite  immoderate.  In  the  eyes  of  German  chil- 
dren, a  campaign  against  the  Russians  is  a  most  praise- 
worthy undertaking. 

The  great  wooden  statue  of  Hindenburg,  encased  in 
geranium  plants  and  scaffolding,  had  many  nails  driven 
into  it  to-day.  The  statue  is  an  unsightly  thing,  but  it 
seems  to  appeal  to  the  Berliners  to  buy  a  nail  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Red  Cross,  climb  the  scaffolding,  and  ham- 
mer it  in.  .  .  . 

Lunched  with  the  Jacksons.  Mr.  Jackson  was  Secre- 
tary of  the  Embassy  here  for  years.  The  Germans  trust 
him.  Baron  von  Mumm  told  me.  Baron  and  Baroness 
Roeder  were  there  and  Countess  Gotzen.  I  asked  Baron 
Roeder  what  he  did  and  he  said  he  was  Master  of  Cere- 
monies at  Court,  and  official  introducer,  and  a  lot  of  other 
things.  He  is  about  seventy-five,  but  he  says  he  is  going 
to  the  front  if  the  war  keeps  up  much  longer.  Already 
he  has  offered  himself  three  times.  His  chief  irritation 
against  England  is  being  cut  off  from  his  London  tailor. 
Every  German  I  meet  out  of  uniform  tells  the  same  sad 


196  An  Uncensored  Diary 

tale.  The  old  gentleman  said  he  thought  the  naval  vic- 
tory was  due  principally  to  Zeppelins.  The  Bluchers 
joined  us  for  coffee.  Count  Bliicher  looks  like  the  pic- 
tures of  his  famous  grandparent.     Princess  said 

that  his  father  is  a  dreadful  old  gentleman,  fights  with 
everyone,  his  son  included,  all  the  time.  As  the  old 
Prince  is  eighty-five,  the  relations  had  better  run  around 
and  turn  the  other  cheek  before  it's  too  late. 

V— COUNTESS AND  HER  DAUGHTER 

June  4th, 

We  staggered  in  to  Countess 's  tea  late  in  the 

afternoon.  She  told  me  how  she  brought  up  Hilda,  her 
daughter.  Hilda  is  a  little  matter  of  six  feet  high. 
Her  mother  was  afraid  to  ever  let  her  daughter 
go  up  in  the  hotel  lift  alone  for  fear  something  will  hap- 
pen to  her.  As  her  last  offence  was  to  refuse  to  let  the 
Kaiser  kiss  her — he  being  her  godfather  and  claiming 
parental  privileges — it  would  seem  she  could  take  care 
of  herself. 

VI-^DINNER  WITH  COUNTESS  GOTZEN 

June  8th. 
I  met  Countess  Bliicher  talking  to  that  mad  Irish- 
American,  John  Gaftney.  He  was  removed  from  his 
consulship  at  Munich  for  being  un-neutral,  so  now  he 
is  in  a  white  rage  at  the  President.  He  says  he  is  the 
only  American  who  has  been  fair  to  the  Germans  and 
that  he  never  was  un-neutral.  Both  Countess  Bliicher 
and  Gaffney  were  in  a  great  state  of  mind  over  Case- 
ment. Gaffney  says  he  is  a  hero  who  sacrificed  himself 
for  his  country,  and  Countess  Bliicher  that  he  is  a  life- 
long friend  and  therefore  must  be  got  off  from  hang- 
ing, whatever  he  has  done.  She  has  written  a  letter  to 
England,  saying  Casement  is  mad,  in  hope  that  it  may 
help  to  save  him. 


An  Uncensored  Diary  igy 

"I  don't  fancy  he  will  like  that — coming  from  me," 
she  said,  "but  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  do- 
ing/' 

I  asked  Count  Blucher  when  he  thought  the  war  would 
end,  and  he  said:  "When  Russia  is  spent."  I  said  that 
sounded  rather  pessimistic. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  think  we  can  wear  her  out  and  then 
get  a  port  on  the  Baltic.  .  .  ." 

Dined  last  night  with  Countess  Gotzen.  I  sat  between 
a  Spaniard  and  Prince  Christian  of  Hesse.  The  Span- 
iard was  a  detestable  little  thing,  and  Prince  Christian 
had  tonsilitis  and  thought  he  was  going  to  die,  so  I  didn't 
get  much  entertainment  out  of  him,  either.  Later  on  we 
changed  seats  and  I  drew  a  fat  and  pleasant  Bavarian, 
who  had  known  my  aunt  in  America.  I  asked  him  what 
his  name  was  and  he  said  they  called  him  "Booby."  I 
said  I  might  get  to  that  in  time  but  I  had  to  have  some- 
thing else  to  tide  me  over.  After  a  few  Christian  names, 
I  ran  him  down  to  his  visiting  card  and  Baron  von  Pa- 
pius. 

Had  tea  with  Countess  Sehr-Thoss,  an  American.  She 
is  charming.  When  I  admired  an  old  painting  on  her 
drawing-room  wall,  she  said:  "Yes.  I  bought  that  with 
2,oco  marks  sent  me  by  my  old  uncle  to  buy  eggs.  He 
wrote  he  heard  in  America  we  were  paying  five  dollars 
apiece  for  eggs  and  thought  I  might  not  be  able  to  afford 
them !" 

The  Duchess  of  Croy  came  bounding  in,  looking  most 
exuberant  and  American.  I  liked  her,  she  is  so  unaf- 
fected. .  .  . 

Vn— WHEN  THE  CZARINA  BURST  INTO 
TEARS 

June  loth. 
Saw  Fraulein  Marelle  and  Fraulein  Schulhoff,  of  the 


198  An  Uncensored  Diary 

Lyceum  Club,  this  morning.  They  were  telHng  us  stories 
of  the  invasion  of  East  Prussia.  .  .  .  One  lady,  whom 
Fraulein  Marelle  knows,  a  Frau  von  Bieberstein,  had  her 
chateau  cut  to  ribbons.  Her  tapestry  chairs  were  sliced 
up  with  knives,  her  china  and  mirrors  broken,  her  beauti- 
ful chapel  knocked  to  pieces,  her  bed  ripped  up  and  the 
feathers  scattered  from  garret  to  cellar.  It  was  rather 
queer  to  hear  this  tale  from  a  German  woman  after  Mme. 
Huard's  tale  of  the  wreck  of  her  chateau  in  northern 
France  by  the  Germans. 

They  told  me,  too,  of  a  nurse,  a  friend  of  theirs,  who 
had  gone  to  Russia.  There  she  found,  among  other 
things,  a  carload  of  children,  eighty  in  number,  all  dead 
of  starvation.  The  Russians  had  put  them  in  the  car, 
sidetracked  it,  and  forgotten  it.  Some  other  cars  were 
found  containing  200  people,  all  dead  but  one  child  in  its 
mother's  arms.  The  nurse  saw  the  Czarina  and  told  her 
of  these,  and  many  other  things,  and  she  said  the  Empress 
burst  into  tears.    Well  she  might! 

The  Germans  are  told  that  if  the  Russians  get  into  East 
Prussia  again,  they  are  to  send  the  women  away  im- 
mediately— those  who  stay  are  all  outraged. 

VIII— A  VISIT  WITH  ZIMMERMANN 

June  I2th, 

Agatha  Grabish  called  this  morning.  She  has  been  to 
East  Prussia.  One  old  woman  she  talked  to  said  she  had 
stayed  for  the  first  Russian  invasion. 

"Why?"  Agatha  asked  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "my  bread  was  baking  when  the  others 
started  to  go,  and  I  didn't  want  to  leave  it.  But  I  might 
just  as  well  have,"  she  added,  "because  the  Russians  came 
in  and  ate  it  all  up  as  soon  as  I  took  it  out  of  the  oven." 

Billy  (the  author's  husband)  and  I  went  to  see  Zim- 
mermann  in  the  Foreirn  Office.     He,  with  Von  Beth- 


An  Uncensored  Diary  199 

mann-HoUweg,  Von  Jagow,  Helfferich,  and  Falkenhayn, 
are  running  Germany.  Zimmermann  is  a  large,  blond 
man.  His  forehead  is  exceptionally  high  and  his  cheeks 
much  scarred  by  sword  slashes.  He  is  genial,  calm,  and 
although  the  busiest  man  in  the  Empire,  quite  unhurried. 

"I  have  just  been  seeing  some  bankers,"  said  he.  "We 
are  negotiating  another  loan  for  our  Turkish  friends. 
Those  people  are  always  in  need  of  money." 

Billy  said  it  was  a  great  imposition  for  us  to  take  up 
his  time,  as  he  was  probably  very  busy.  He  laughed  and 
declared  he  was  glad  to  see  us.  I  told  him  he  was  like 
Disraeli,  who  said  he  was  not  "unusually  busy  to-day" 
but  "usually  busy."  .  .  . 

We  asked  him  whether  Germany  looked  for  a  long 
peace  after  the  war,  and  whether  it  would  be  on  the 
grounds  of  great  military  strength  and  strong  bound- 
aries, or  on  the  basis  of  an  international  conciliatory 
body,  or  a  treaty  ? 

He  answered  that  nothing  short  of  a  United  States  of 
Europe  would  amount  to  anything,  and  seemed  to  possess 
the  usual  German  skepticism  of  treaties. 

"We  will  have  to  have  a  United  States  of  Europe 
some  day,  to  enable  us  to  compete  economically  with 
America.  That  may  come  in  eighty  or  one  hundred  years, 
but  not  in  our  lifetime.  H  you  would  really  develop 
your  natural  resources,  we  in  Europe  would  be  help- 
less. .  .  ." 

IX— TEA  WITH  BARONESS  VON  BISSING 

June  2'/th. 
I  went  to  Baroness  von  Bissing's  to  tea.  Oh,  welcome 
was  the  hour  and  her  comfortable  chair!  She  is  small, 
with  finely  chiselled  features ;  her  movements  are  quick, 
like  those  of  a  highly  bred  animal,  and  she  is  rather  ex- 
citable. 


200  An  Uncensored  Diary 

We  sat  down  to  tea  and  cherry  tarts  and  I  asked  her 
when  she  was  next  going  to  Belgium.  She  can,  of  course, 
go  whenever  she  likes,  but  is  never  there  officially,  as  no 
German  officer  may  take  his  wife  to  Belgium.  The  Gen- 
eral, being  so  strict  a  gentleman,  will  not  break  the  rule 
even  for  himself,  and  so  Baroness  von  Bissing  and  her 
children  must  live  alone  in  Germany,  and  he  with  his 
150  aides-de-camp  in  his  palace  in  Brussels. 

"It  is  very  hard  to  be  without  my  husband  and  my 
eldest  son,"  she  said. 

"Where  is  your  boy  ?"  I  asked. 

"He  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  French,  wounded  in 
six  places.  When  he  got  well,  they  took  him  to  prison 
and  put  him  in  solitary  confinement  in  a  little  tiny  cell 
with  no  work  to  do  and  no  one  with  whom  he  can  speak. 
He  may  not  even  look  out  of  the  cell  window,  for  they 
painted  it  white.  Twice  a  day  he  is  taken  for  a  walk 
by  his  guards — and  this  all  because  the  French  thought 
we  did  not  treat  Delcasse's  son  properly.  Now,  because 
they  took  my  boy,  and  another,  we  have  put  six  of  their 
men  in  solitary  confinement.  We  will  see  where  these 
reprisals  will  bring  us ;  I  am  sorry  they  must  be,  but  we 
have  more  captured  men  than  they." 

"Why  did  they  put  Delcasse's  son  in  prison  in  the  first 
place?"  I  asked. 

"Because  he  was  an  impertinent  boy  and  called  his 
officers  *dirty  dogs  of  Prussians,' "  she  answered.  .  .  . 

"Serbia  and  Montenegro  are  full  of  people  that  need 
to  be  punished,  but  Italy — Italy!" — said  Frau  von  Biss- 
ing, with  her  pretty  nose  in  the  air — "is  a  nasty  little  dog 
that  has  done  something  dirty  and  must  be  kicked 
out!"  .  .  . 

"England  is  a  disgusting  hypocrite,"  said  my  hostess 
emphatically.  "France  is  not  so  bad;  we  do  not  hate 
her,  but  England  is  in  this  war  solely  for  money.     It  is 


An  Uncensored  Diary  201 

a  pleasant  little  joke  of  theirs,  about  our  invading  Bel- 
gium first,  but  I  know  that  the  English  and  French  were 
there  before  us." 

Now,  if  the  wife  of  the  Governor  of  Belgium  believes 
this  so  earnestly,  one  may  imagine  how  firmly  the  rest 
of  Germany  believes  it.  .  .  . 

X— AT  THE  CLUB  WITH  BARON  VON  MUMM 

July  1st. 

Went  to  the  Von  Gwinners*  to  lunch.  It  was  Von 
Gwinner  who  put  through  the  Bagdad  Railway  scheme. 
The  house  is  large,  but  there  is  a  life-size  marble  statue 
of  a  woman  playing  a  violin  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
has  a  beautiful  garden. 

Von  Gwinner  said  the  victor  in  this  war  would  be 
the  nation  which  declared  bankruptcy  two  weeks  after 
all  the  rest.  He  expects  they  will  all  be  taxed  to  the 
verge  of  poverty  when  the  war  is  over,  but  believes  Ger- 
many can  hold  out  the  longest. 

Dined  with  Baron  von  Mumm  Tuesday  night  at  the 
Automobile  Club.  He  is  a  fraud,  and  Count  Montjelas 
with  him,  and  I  hope  to  see  them  both  soon  to  tell  them 
so.  There  was  a  crowd  in  the  Leipziger  Platz  when  I 
got  there,  and  the  two  men  were  standing  at  the  window. 
I  asked  what  it  was  and  they  said:  "Nothing,  nothing, 
only  the  usual  people  going  home  from  work."  Now, 
whether  they  knew  or  not,  I  am  not  sure,  but  it  really 
was  the  Socialists  publicly  demonstrating  their  disap- 
proval of  the  imprisonment  of  Liebknecht  for  two  years 
and  a  half.  That  shows  what  a  Berlin  riot  is.  I  looked 
on  and  never  knew  it! 

WeVe  heard  from  Freiherr  von  B that  there 

was  a  really  recognizable  one  in  Diisseldorf.  All  the 
women  went  to  the  City  Hall  and  demanded  more  meat 
and  potatoes.    The  Mayor  stuck  his  shaved  head  out  of 


202  An  Uncensored  Diary 

the  window  and  tried  to  calm  them  with  tales  of  beans 
and  peas,  but  they  shouted  they  did  not  want  them,  they 
wanted  potatoes  and,  when  he  said  he  hadn't  any,  they 
smashed  all  the  windows  that  couldn't  resist  brick. 

"That's  just  like  the  poor,"  said  Von  B ,  "they 

won't  eat  anything  except  potatoes.'* 

Baron  Bocklin  showed  us  pictures  he'd  taken  on  the 
front.  In  one  little  house  in  Belgium,  which  he'd  made 
his  headquarters,  a  woman  sneaked  in  on  him  one  night 
when  he  was  sleeping.  He  heard  her  and,  jumping  up, 
caught  her  by  the  throat.  She  had  a  long  knife  in  her 
hand.  As  Bocklin  was  taking  it  from  her,  a  man  crawled 
out  from  under  his  bed  with  a  gun,  but  was  covered  by 
the  sergeant  who  came  to  Bocklin's  rescue.  The  Baron 
let  both  assassins  go,  instead  of  having  them  shot  as  he 
had  the  right  to  do.  Bocklin's  mother  was  an  American, 
and  his  grandmother  an  Englishwoman.  .  .  . 

Heard  a  delightful  story  about  Mr.  Gerard  from  Mrs. 

.     She  said  that  to  tease  Countess  B he 

asked  her  why  she  hadn't  married  some  nice  stockbroker 
in  New  York,  who  could  have  provided  her  with  much 
better-looking  clothes,  and  more  of  them,  than  Count 

B .    She  went  home  in  a  rage  and  told  the  Count, 

who  also  became  furious  and  they  both  told  all  Berlin 
that  Mr.  Gerard  was  so  anti-German  that  he  disapproved 
of  German-American  marriages.  Mrs.  Gerard  implores 
her  husband  to  save  his  jokes  for  those  who  have  a  sense 
of  humor  but  he  says,  no  matter  what  resolutions  he 

makes,  Countess  B is  more  than  he  can  resist,  and 

his  remarks  grow  always  worse  instead  of  better. 

XI— GUEST  OF  WARBURG,  GERMAN  BANKER 

July  6th. 
That  night  we  went  to  the  Max  Warburgs'  to  dine. 
They  are  very  delightful  people ;  their  house  is  large  and 


An  Uncensored  Diary  203 

nice,  their  sense  of  humor  a  joy  to  find,  and  besides  that, 
Mrs.  Warburg  was  well  dressed  and  wore — oh,  wonder 
of  wonders  in  a  German  woman — silk  stockings.  Mr. 
Warburg  is  one  of  the  biggest  bankers  of  Germany,  and 
is  certainly  the  nicest.  He  declared  American  business 
men  and  American  financiers  to  be  the  most  charming 
and  the  most  uninformed  men  in  the  world. 

"They  know  nothing  of  international  affairs,  not  one 
thing,"  said  he.  "And  they  do  not  even  know  their  own 
country  thoroughly.  We  wonder  over  here  how  they  can 
possibly  get  along  with  such  little  knowledge  of  the  affairs 
of  the  world."  He  said  he  told  his  brother,  Mr.  Paul 
Warburg,  that  it's  easy  enough  for  him  to  be  a  big  man 
in  America,  where  there  is  so  little  competition,  but  just 
let  him  come  to  Germany  and  try  it.  One  may  think 
America  is  work-mad,  but  it  seems  a  shiftless,  lazy  place 
after  Germany.  .  ,  . 

Xn— TALK  WITH  COUNT  BLUCHER 

July  isth. 
Lunched  at  the  Lays*.  They  had  a  party  for  Prince 
Christian  of  Hesse  and  his  wife,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rog- 
er's mother  and  father.  The  Bluchers  were  to  have  been 
there,  but  old  Count  BlUcher  chose  this  morning  to  drop 
dead  ofit*  his  horse.  He  must  have  been  a  charming  old 
man.  Most  of  his  life  he  spent  trying  to  evade  his  Ger- 
man taxes.  He  had  an  island  off  the  coast  of  England, 
on  which  he  kept  a  great  many  kangaroos.  Perhaps  he 
thought  they  added  a  touch  of  British  atmosphere  to  his 
estate.  He  wished  to  know  if  he  couldn't  come  to  Amer- 
ica and  live  there  about  a  week,  in  order  to  become  an 
American  citizen,  as  he  found  his  island  didn't  get  him 
out  of  paying  his  German  taxes,  but  when  told  it  would 
take  even  longer  than  a  week  to  become  an  American 
citizen,  he  gave  up  that  idea.     He  was  much  interested 


204  ^^  Uncensored  Diary 

in  America  but  said  he  thought  it  must  be  dangerous  to 
have  so  many  buffaloes  around.  And,  when  he  heard  of 
the  lynchings  our  peace-loving  citizens  occasionally  like 
to  indulge  in,  he  suggested  we  let  our  wild  Indians  out 
to  subdue  the  lynchers.  "That  would  soon  put  a  stop  to 
such  riots,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

XIII— AT  AMERICAN  EMBASSY  IN  BRUSSELS 

July  31st. 
Upon  Billy's  appealing  to  Count  Harrach,  we  were 
allowed  to  go  to  tea  with  the  Whitlocks.  Diplomatic 
life  in  Belgium  to-day  is  one  of  the  experiences  it  is  no 
harm  to  omit.  If  the  American  Diplomats  attempt  to 
be  tactful  with  Belgians  about  the  Germans,  and  say  that 
they  really  are  a  nice  lot  after  all,  Belgian  doors  close  and 
hats  are  not  lifted  in  the  street.  Yet  if  they  refused  to 
see  Germans  or  avoided  them  they  would  shortly  be  re- 
quested to  leave  on  the  grounds  of  being  anti-German. 
Tact  and  diplomacy  have  a  hard  life  in  Belgium  now.  .  .  . 
Philip  Piatt,  who  was  also  at  lunch,  had,  as  his  chief 
worry  that  day,  the  knowledge  that  the  three  young 
Princesses  de  Ligne,  who  are  ardently  working  for  their 
country,  were  feeding  the  children  in  the  Petites  Abeilles 
so  fast  that  they  nearly  choked  them.  The  question  which 
bothered  him  sorely  was,  who  to  get  to  tell  the  three  noble 
ladies  that  their  attentions  would  be  more  appreciated  if 
they  were  less  violent. 

XIV— DINNER  WITH  GENERAL  VON  BISSING 

Berlin,  August  2d. 

Our  last  night  in  Brussels  we  dined  with  General  von 
Bissing.  The  dinner,  for  some  peculiar  reason,  was  given 
for  us. 

The  hall  was  filled  with  officers.  One  very  glorious- 
looking  person  took  me  in  charge  and  introduced  each 


An  Uncensored  Diary  205 

man  to  me.  They  clicked  their  booted  heels  together  and 
kissed  my  hand.  This  audience  over,  the  Governor  ap- 
peared. He  is  seventy-two  and  looks  sixty.  His  face  is 
stern  yet  not  unkind.  .  .  . 

I  asked  Von  Bissing  if  he  approved  of  suffrage,  and 
he  said:  "Never!  It  is  something  terrible  for  wo- 
men." .  .  . 

XV--THE  KAISER  AND  VON  HINDENBURG 

Berlin,  Aug.  4th. 

Hindenburg  has  been  given  charge  of  the  eastern  front, 
proving  that  Austria  must  have  been  feeling  rather  de- 
jected. He  was  in  command  almost  two  weeks  before 
the  news  came  out.  It  must  be  a  great  blow  to  the  Aus- 
trian pride. 

I  wonder  if  he  will  drive  the  Russians  back  a  second 
time.  When  Hindenburg  won  the  battle  of  Tannenberg 
and  drove  the  Russians  out  of  East  Prussia,  he  was  exe- 
cuting in  reality  what  he  had  lectured  the  military  stu- 
dents about  for  twenty  years.  In  his  lecture  course  he 
had  called  it  the  "Battle  of  the  Masurian  Lakes,"  and 
none  in  the  world  knew  so  well  what  to  do  in  just  the 
situation  which  arose  as  did  the  retired  general.  He  had 
been  refused,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  as  too"  old, 
and  was  obliged  to  sit  at  home  helpless,  and  read  about 
the  Russians  swarming  into  his  country.  At  this  point, 
the  Kaiser  remembered  Hindenburg.  In  the  middle  of 
the  night  orders  arrived  that  the  General  in  command  of 
the  eastern  front  had  been  deposed  and  Hindenburg  put 
in  his  place.  A  special  train  was  waiting  and  Hinden- 
burg started  at  two  in  the  morning  and  worked  out  his 
plans  as  he  sped  towards  the  advancing  Russian  army. 
In  three  days  the  enemy  v/as  in  retreat  and  Germany  was 
saved.  Is  it  a  wonder  the  people  call  him :  Unser  Hin- 
denburg f    The  story  goes  that  the  General  who  was  in 


2o6  An  Uncensored  Diary 

command  sent  word  to  the  Kaiser  that  he  must  retreat 
behind  the  Oder.  The  Kaiser  sent  word  back:  "Retire 
behind  the  Oder,  but  without  the  army,"  and  immediately 
sent  for  old  Hindenburg.  The  General  never  plays  poli- 
tics. A  few  years  ago,  when  there  was  a  general  in- 
spection of  troops,  they  conducted  a  sham  battle.  Gen- 
eral Von  Moltke  managed  to  get  a  very  strong  position ; 
then  the  Kaiser,  as  a  grand  finale,  led  an  immense  cavalry 
charge  down  a  plain  and  exposed  his  troops  to  fire  from 
three  sides.  As  a  grandstand  play,  it  was  magnificent. 
Triumphant,  the  Kaiser  rode  up  to  General  Hindenburg, 
the  referee. 

"How  was  that,  General?"  he  demanded,  proudly. 

The  General  saluted. 

"All  dead  but  one.  Sir,"  he  said. 

XVI— TEA  WITH  COUNTESS  BERNSTORFF 

August  13th. 

Had  tea  with  Constance  Minot  and  Countess  Bern- 
storff  the  other  day.  Just  now  she  is  in  a  great  state  of 
nerves  over  the  thought  of  going  to  America  to  join  the 
Ambassador.  She  declared  she  knew  the  English  had 
been  lying  in  wait  for  her  for  two  years  and  were  going 
to  be  as  disagreeable  as  possible. 

"They  will  search  everything  I  have,  I  know,"  said 
she.  "They  will  wash  my  back  with  acid  and  they  will 
rip  the  lining  out  of  everything,  and  I  shall  never  be  fit 
to  be  seen  again." 

In  vain  Constance  and  I  assured  her  that  she  would 
be  treated  with  great  respect.  I  told  her  we  had  had 
no  trouble  at  all,  and  she  said :  "What  did  you  do  ?"  I 
answered  that  we  made  love  to  the  English  inspection  of- 
ficer and  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  asked  her  why  she 
shouldn't  do  the  same. 

"I  suppose  that  would  be  the  best  way,"  she  answered. 


An  Unc elisor ed  Diary  207 

Another  real  grievance  was  that  everyone  had  tried  to 
give  her  things  to  bring  to  friends  and  relatives  in  Amer- 
ica. 

"One  woman  gave  me  a  large  box.  I  opened  it  and 
found  a  toy  Zeppelin.  Imagine  if  the  English  had  found 
that  in  my  trunk!  They  would  have  taken  me  off  the 
boat  and  hanged  me,  surely !"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

XVII— A  WALK  WITH  AMBASSADOR  GERARD 

August  13th. 

Went  to  Herringsdorf  on  the  one  o'clock  train  Satur- 
day with  Lithgow  Osborne  and  Christian  Herter.  The 
Ambassador  was  in  Herringsdorf  with  Aileen  and  Lanier 
Winslow.  .  .  . 

After  dinner  we  went  for  a  walk  on  the  pier.  I  was 
with  the  Ambassador,  who  kept  making  his  dry,  humorous 
remarks  about  everyone.     Soon  a  guard  turned  us  back. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  I  asked. 

"You  are  in  Germany,"  replied  Mr.  Gerard.  "Don't 
forget  that.  They  wait  until  they  find  out  that  people 
like  to  do  a  thing,  and  then  at  once  they  forbid  it." 

"What  I'd  like  best,  Mr.  Gerard,"  said  I,  "would  be  to 
hear  you  talk  to  the  powers  that  be  in  Germany.  It  must 
be  rather  difficult  for  them  to  understand  all  your  jokes." 

"It  is,"  he  replied.  "They  can't  make  me  out  at  all 
here." 

He  makes  the  most  glorious  remarks  to  every  one.  I 
heard  that,  apropos  of  the  Lusitania,  the  Ambassador  said 
to  the  Chancellor: 

"Your  argument  about  the  Lusitania  amounts  to  just 
this.  If  I  were  to  write  a  note  to  your  sister  and  say : 
*If  you  go  out  on  the  Wilhelm  Platz,  I  will  shoot  you!' 
and  if  she  did  go  out  on  the  Wilhelm  Platz  and  I  shot 
her— that  would  be  her  fault,  wouldn't  it?" 

And  one  day  when  Zimmerman  remarked :  "The  United 


2o8  An  Uncensored  Diary 

States  couldn't  go  to  war  with  us,  because  we  have  500,- 

000  trained  Germans  in  the  United  States,"  the  Ambas- 
sador repHed :  "You  may  have  500,000  trained  Germans 
in  the  United  States,  but  don't  forget  that  we  have  500,- 

001  lamp-posts." 


'*A  STUDENT  IN  ARMS"— IN  THE 

RANKS  WITH  KITCHENER'S 

ARMY 

Resurrection  of  the  Soul  on  the  Battlefield 

Told  hy  Donald  Hankey,  Who  Was  Killed  in  Action  on 
Western  Front  on  October  26,  1916 

The  high  spiritual  idealism  which  actuates  so  many  thousands 
in  the  ranks  of  the  Allies  finds  its  voice  in  Donald  Hankey. 
The  horrors  of  War  are  so  appalling  that  the  heart  faints  when 
we  think  only  of  the  body.  But  when  the  eye  is  turned  to  the 
spiritual  side  it  is  a  magnificent  spectacle  of  the  self-sacrifice 
of  men.  This  young  Britisher  with  inspiring  nobility  tells  of 
his  experiences  in  his  book  "A  Student  in  Arms,"  which  is  one 
of  the  most  notable  contributions  to  the  War's  literature,  deal- 
ing with  the  deeper  things  of  human  life.  His  sketch  of  "The 
Beloved  Captain"  is  here  told  by  permission  of  his  publishers, 
E.  P.  Button  and  Company. 

*  I— STORY  OF  "KITCHENER'S  ARMY" 

"The  New  Army,"  "Kitchener's  Army,"  we  go  by 
many  names.  The  older  sergeants — men  who  have 
served  in  regular  battalions — sometimes  call  us  "Kitch- 
ener's Mob,"  and  swear  that  to  take  us  to  war  would  be 
another  "Massacre  of  the  Innocents."  At  other  times 
they  affirm  that  we  are  a  credit  to  our  instructors  (them- 
selves) ;  but  such  affirmations  have  become  rarer  since 
beer  went  up  to  threepence  a  pint. 

We  are  a  mixed  lot — a  triumph  of  democracy,  like  the 


♦All  numerals  relate  to  stories  told  herein — not  to  chapters 
in  the  book. 

209 


2IO  "A  Student  in  Arms" 

Tubes.  Some  of  us  have  fifty  years  to  our  credit  and 
only  own  to  thirty ;  others  are  sixteen  and  claim  to  be 
eighteen.  Some  of  us  enlisted  for  glory,  and  some  for 
fun,  and  a  few  for  fear  of  starvation.  Some  of  us 
began  by  being  stout,  and  have  lost  weight;  others  were 
seedy  and  are  filling  out.  Some  of  us  grumble,  and  go 
sick  to  escape  parades;  but  for  the  most  part  we  are 
aggre:5sively  cheerful,  and  were  never  fitter  in  our  lives. 
Some  miss  their  glass  of  claret,  others  their  fish-and- 
chips ;  but  as  we  all  sleep  on  the  floor,  and  have  only 
one  suit,  which  is  rapidly  becoming  very  disreputable, 
you  would  never  tell  t'other  from  which. 

We  sing  as  we  march.  Such  songs  we  sing!  All 
about  coons  and  girls,  parodies  of  hymns,  parodies  about 
Kaiser  Bill,  and  sheer  unadulterated  nonsense.  We  shall 
sing 

"Where's  yer  girl? 
Ain't  yer  got  none?" 

as  we  march  into  battle. 

Battle  !  Battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death !  Maiming, 
slaughter,  blood,  extremities  of  fear  and  discomfort  and 
pain !  How  incredibly  remote  all  that  seems !  We  don't 
believe  in  it  really.  It  is  just  a  great  game  we  are  learn- 
ing. It  is  part  of  the  game  to  make  little  short  rushes  in 
extended  order,  to  lie  on  our  bellies  and  keep  our  heads 
down,  snap  our  rifles  and  fix  our  bayonets.  Just  a  game, 
that's  all,  and  then  home  to  tea. 

Some  of  us  think  that  these  young  officers  take  the 
game  a  jolly  sight  too  seriously.  Twice  this  week  we 
have  been  late  for  dinner,  and  once  they  routed  us  out 
to  play  it  at  night.  That  was  a  bit  too  thick !  The 
canteen  was  shut  when  we  got  back  and  we  missed  our 
pint. 


211 

Anyhow  we  are  Kitchener's  Army,  and  we  are  quite 
sure  it  will  be  all  right.  Just  send  us  to  Flanders,  and 
see  if  it  ain't.  We're  Kitchener's  Army,  and  we  don't 
care  if  it  snows  ink! 

II_STORY  OF  THE  BELOVED  CAPTAIN 

He  came  in  the  early  days,  when  we  were  still  at 
recruit  drills  under  the  hot  September  sun.  Tall,  erect, 
smiling:  so  we  first  saw  him,  and  so  he  remained  to  the 
end.  At  the  start  he  knew  as  little  of  soldiering  as  we 
did.  He  used  to  watch  us  being  drilled  by  the  sergeant ; 
but  his  manner  of  watching  was  peculiarly  his  own.  He 
never  looked  bored.  He  was  learning  just  as  much  as 
we  were,  in  fact  more.  He  was  learning  his  job,  and 
from  the  first  he  saw  that  his  job  was  more  than  to  give 
the  correct  orders.  His  job  was  to  lead  us.  So  he 
watched,  and  noted  many  things,  and  never  found  the 
time  hang  heavy  on  his  hands.  He  watched  our  evolu- 
tions, so  as  to  learn  the  correct  orders ;  he  watched  for 
the  right  manner  of  command,  the  manner  which  secured 
the  most  prompt  response  to  an  order;  and  he  watched 
every  one  of  us  for  our  individual  characteristics.  We 
were  his  men.  Already  he  took  an  almost  paternal  inter- 
est in  us.  He  noted  the  men  who  tried  hard,  but  were 
naturally  slow  and  awkward.  He  distinguished  them 
from  those  who  were  inattentive  and  bored.  He  marked 
down  the  keen  and  efficient  amongst  us.  Most  of  all  he 
studied  those  who  were  subiect  to  moods,  who  were 
sulky  one  day  and  willing  the  next.  These  were  the 
ones  who  were  to  turn  the  scale.  If  only  he  could  get 
these  on  ^is  side,  the  battle  would  be  won. 

For  a  few  davs  he  just  watched.  Then  he  started 
work.  He  picked  out  some  of  the  most  awkward  ones, 
and,  accompanied  by  a  corporal,  marched  them  away  by 


212  "A  Student  in  Arms" 

themselves.  Ingenuously  he  explained  that  he  did  not 
know  much  himself  yet ;  but  he  thought  that  they  might 
get  on  better  if  they  drilled  by  themselves  a  bit,  and  that 
if  he  helped  them,  and  they  helped  him,  they  would  soon 
learn.  His  confidence  was  infectious.  He  looked  at 
them,  and  they  looked  at  him,  and  the  men  pulled  them- 
selves together  and  determined  to  do  their  best.  Their 
best  surprised  themselves.  His  patience  was  inexhaust- 
ible. His  simplicity  could  not  fail  to  be  understood. 
His  keenness  and  optimism  carried  all  with  them.  Very 
soon  the  awkward  squad  found  themselves  awkward  no 
longer;  and  soon  after  that  they  ceased  to  be  a  squad, 
and  went  back  to  the  platoon. 

Then  he  started  to  drill  the  platoon,  with  the  sergeant 
standing  by  to  point  out  his  mistakes.  Of  course  he 
made  mistakes,  and  when  that  happened  he  never  minded 
admitting  it.  He  would  explain  what  mistakes  he  had 
made,  and  try  again.  The  result  was  that  we  began  to 
take  almost  as  much  interest  and  pride  in  his  progress 
as  he  did  in  ours.  We  were  his  men,  and  he  was  our 
leader.  We  felt  that  he  was  a  credit  to  us,  and  we  re- 
solved to  be  a  credit  to  him.  There  was  a  bond  of 
mutual  confidence  and  affection  between  us,  which  grew 
stronger  and  stronger  as  the  months  passed.  He  had  a 
smile  for  almost  everyone ;  but  we  thought  that  he  had  a 
different  smile  for  us.  We  looked  for  it,  and  were 
never  disappointed.  On  parade,  as  long  as  we  were  try- 
ing, his  smile  encouraged  us.  Off  parade,  if  we  passed 
him  and  saluted,  his  eyes  looked  straight  into  our  own, 
and  his  smile  greeted  us.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing, 
that  smile  of  his.  It  was  something  worth  living  for, 
and  worth  working  for.  It  bucked  one  up  when  one 
was  bored  or  tired.  It  seemed  to  make  one  look  at  things 
from  a  different  point  of  view,  a  finer  point  of  view,  his 
point  of  view.    There  was  nothing  feeble  or  weak  about 


"A  Student  in  Anns"  213 

it.  It  was  not  monotonous  like  the  smile  of  "Sunny 
Jim."  It  meant  something.  It  meant  that  we  were  his 
men,  and  that  he  was  proud  of  us,  and  sure  that  we  were 
going  to  do  jolly  well — better  than  any  of  the  other 
platoons.  And  it  made  us  determine  that  we  would. 
When  we  failed  him,  when  he  was  disappointed  in  us,  he 
did  not  smile.  He  did  not  rage  or  curse.  He  just  looked 
disappointed,  and  that  made  us  feel  far  more  savage 
with  ourselves  than  any  amount  of  swearing  would  have 
done.  He  made  us  feel  that  we  were  not  playing  the 
game  by  him.  It  was  not  what  he  said.  He  was  never 
very  good  at  talking.  It  was  just  how  he  looked.  And 
his  look  of  displeasure  and  disappointment  was  a  thing 
that  we  would  do  anything  to  avoid.  The  fact  was  that 
he  had  won  his  way  into  our  affections.  We  loved  him. 
And  there  isn't  anything  stronger  than  love,  when  all's 
said  and  done. 

Ill— "A  TOUCH  OF  CHRIST  ABOUT  HIM" 

He  was  good  to  look  on.  He  was  big  and  tall,  and 
held  himself  upright.  His  eyes  looked  his  own  height. 
He  moved  with  the  grace  of  an  athlete.  His  skin  was 
tanned  by  a  wholesome  outdoor  life,  and  his  eyes  were 
clear  and  wide  open.  Physically  he  was  a  prince  among 
men.  We  used  to  notice,  as  we  marched  along  the  road 
and  passed  other  officers,  that  they  always  looked  pleased 
to  see  him.  They  greeted  him  with  a  cordiality  which 
was  reserved  for  him.  Even  the  general  seemed  to  have 
singled  him  out,  and  cast  an  eye  of  special  approval  upon 
him.  Somehow,  gentle  though  he  was,  he  was  never 
familiar.  He  had  a  kind  of  annate  nobility  which  marked 
him  out  as  above  us.  He  was  not  democratic.  He  was 
rather  the  justification  for  aristocracy.  We  all  knew  in- 
stinctively that  he  was  our  superior — a  man   of  finer 


214  "^  Student  in  Arms" 

temper  than  ourselves,  a  "toff"  in  his  own  right.  I 
suppose  that  that  was  why  he  could  be  so  humble  without 
loss  of  dignity.  For  he  was  humble  too,  if  that  is  the 
right  word,  and  I  think  it  is.  No  trouble  of  ours  was 
too  small  for  him  to  attend  to.  When  we  started  route 
marches,  for  instance,  and  our  feet  were  blistered  and 
sore,  as  they  often  were  at  first,  you  would  have  thought 
that  they  were  his  own  feet  from  the  trouble  he  took. 
Of  course  after  the  march  there  was  always  an  inspec- 
tion of  feet.  That  is  the  routine.  But  with  him  it  was 
no  mere  routine.  He  came  into  our  rooms,  and  if  any- 
one had  a  sore  foot  he  would  kneel  down  on  the  floor 
and  look  at  it  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  been  a  doctor. 
Then  he  would  prescribe,  and  the  remedies  were  ready  at 
hand,  being  borne  by  the  sergeant.  If  a  blister  had  to  be 
lanced  he  would  very  likely  lance  it  himself  there  and 
then,  so  as  to  make  sure  that  it  was  done  with  a  clean 
needle  and  that  no  dirt  was  allowed  to  get  in.  There 
was  no  affectation  about  this,  no  striving  after  effect. 
It  was  simply  that  he  felt  that  our  feet  were  pretty  im- 
portant, and  that  he  knew  that  we  were  pretty  careless. 
So  he  thought  it  best  at  the  start  to  see  to  the  matter 
himself.  Nevertheless,  there  was  in  our  eyes  something 
almost  religious  about  this  care  for  our  feet.  It  seemed 
to  have  a  touch  of  the  Christ  about  it,  and  we  loved  and 
honored  him  the  more. 

IV— "A  TORPEDO  FELL— THAT  WAS  THE  END" 

We  knew  that  we  should  lose  him.  For  one  thing, 
we  knew  that  he  would  be  promoted.  It  was  our  great 
hope  that  some  day  he  would  command  the  company. 
Also  we  knew  that  he  would  be  killed.  He  was  so  amaz- 
ingly unself-conscious.  For  that  reason  we  knew  that 
he  would  be  absolutely  fearless.     He  would  be  so  keen 


''A  Student  in  Arms'*  215 

on  the  job  in  hand,  and  so  anxious  for  his  men,  that  he 
would  forget  about  his  own  danger.  So  it  proved.  He 
was  a  captain  when  we  went  out  to  the  front.  When- 
ever there  was  a  tiresome  job  to  be  done,  he  was  there 
in  charge.  If  ever  there  were  a  moment  of  danger,  he 
was  on  the  spot.  If  there  were  any  particular  part  of 
the  line  where  the  shells  were  falling  faster  or  the  bombs 
dropping  more  thickly  than  in  other  parts,  he  was  in  it. 
It  was  not  that  he  was  conceited  and  imagined  himself 
indispensable.  It  was  just  that  he  was  so  keen  that  the 
men  should  do  their  best,  and  act  worthily  of  the  regi- 
ment. He  knew  that  fellows  hated  turning  out  at  night 
for  fatigue,  when  they  were  in  a  "rest  camp."  He  knew 
how  tiresome  the  long  march  there  and  back  and  the 
digging  in  the  dark  for  an  unknown  purpose  were.  He 
knew  that  fellows  would  be  inclined  to  grouse  and  shirk, 
so  he  thought  that  it  was  up  to  him  to  go  and  show 
them  that  he  thought  it  was  a  job  worth  doing.  And 
the  fact  that  he  was  there  put  a  new  complexion  on  the 
matter  altogether.  No  one  would  shirk  if  he  were  there. 
No  one  would  grumble  so  much,  either.  What  was  good 
enough  for  him  was  good  enough  for  us.  If  it  were  not 
too  much  trouble  for  him  to  turn  out,  it  was  not  too 
much  trouble  for  us.  He  knew,  too,  how  trying  to  the 
nerves  it  is  to  sit  in  a  trench  and  be  shelled.  He  knew 
what  a  temptation  there  is  to  move  a  bit  farther  down 
the  trench  and  herd  together  in  a  bunch  at  what  seems 
the  safest  end.  He  knew,  too,  the  folly  of  it,  and  that 
it  was  not  the  thing  to  do — not  done  in  the  best  regi- 
ments. So  he  went  along  to  see  that  it  did  not  happen, 
to  see  that  the  men  stuck  to  their  posts,  and  conquered 
their  nerves.  And  as  soon  as  we  saw  him,  we  forgot  our 
own  anxiety.  It  was:  "Move  a  bit  farther  down,  sir. 
We  are  all  right  here;  but  don't  you  go  exposing  of 
yourself."     We  didn't  matter.     We  knew  it  then.     We 


2i6  '*A  Student  in  Arms" 

were  just  the  rank  and  file,  bound  to  take  risks.  The 
company  would  get  along  all  right  without  us.  But  the 
captain,  how  was  the  company  to  get  on  without  him? 
To  see  him  was  to  catch  his  point  of  view,  to  forget  our 
personal  anxieties,  and  only  to  think  of  the  company,  and 
the  regiment,  and  honor. 

There  was  not  one  of  us  but  would  gladly  have  died 
for  him.  We  longed  for  the  chance  to  show  him  that. 
We  weren't  heroes.  We  never  dreamed  about  the  V.  C. 
But  to  save  the  captain  we  would  have  earned  it  ten 
times  over,  and  never  have  cared  a  button  whether  we 
got  it  or  not.  We  never  got  the  chance,  worse  luck.  It 
was  all  the  other  way.  We  were  holding  some  trenches 
which  were  about  as  unhealthy  as  trenches  could  be.  The 
Boches  were  only  a  few  yards  away,  and  were  well 
supplied  with  trench  mortars.  We  hadn't  got  any  at 
that  time.  Bombs  and  air  torpedoes  were  dropping  round 
us  all  day.  Of  course  the  captain  was  there.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  could  not  keep  away.  A  torpedo  fell  into  the 
trench,  and  buried  some  of  our  chaps.  The  fellows 
next  to  them  ran  to  dig  them  out.  Of  course  he  was  one 
of  the  first.  Then  came  another  torpedo  in  the  same 
place.    That  was  the  end. 

But  he  lives.  Somehow  he  lives.  And  we  who  knew 
him  do  not  forget.  We  feel  his  eyes  on  us.  We  still 
work  for  that  wonderful  smile  of  his.  There  are  not 
many  of  the  old  lot  left  now;  but  I  think  that  those 
who  went  West  have  seen  him.  When  they  got  to  the 
other  side  I  think  they  were  met.  Someone  said :  "Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servant."  And  as  they  knelt 
before  that  gracious  pierced  Figure,  I  reckon  they  saw 
nearby  the  captain's  smile.  Anyway,  in  that  faith  let  me 
die,  if  death  should  come  my  way ;  and  so,  I  think,  shall 
I  die  content. 


"THE  RED  HORIZON"— STORIES  OF 
THE  LONDON  IRISH 

The  Man  With  the  Rosary 

Told  by  Patrick  MacGill,  Rifleman  Number  3008y 
London  Irish 

Patrick  MacGill  is  the  genius  of  the  battlefield.  The  War  has 
given  his  great  Irish  heart  its  opportunity  to  express  itself,  and 
his  stories  from  the  front  have  become  little  classics  in  the 
War's  literature.  He  dedicates  his  stories :  "To  the  London 
Irish,  to  the  Spirit  of  Those  Who  Fight  and  to  the  Memory  of 
Those  Who  Have  Passed  Avi^ay."  A  letter  to  him  by  the 
President  of  the  County  of  London  Territorial  Association 
reads :  "When  I  recruited  you  into  the  London  Irish — one  of 
those  splendid  regiments  that  London  has  sent  to  Sir  John 
French,  himself  an  Irishman — it  was  with  gratitude  and  pride. 
You  had  much  to  give  us.  The  rare  experiences  of  your  boy- 
hood, your  talents,  your  brilliant  hopes  for  the  future.  Upon 
all  these  the  Western  hills  and  loughs  of  your  native  Donegal 
seemed  to  have  the  prior  claim.  But  you  gave  them  to  London 
and  to  our  London  Territorials.  The  London  Irish  will  be 
proud  of  their  young  artist  in  words  and  he  will  forever  be 
proud  of  the  London  Irish  Regiment,  its  deeds  and  valour,  to 
which  he  has  dedicated  such  great  gifts.  May  God  preserve 
you."  Patrick  MacGill,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  Tommies 
as  a  private  soldier,  is  writing  many  great  books.  The  following 
stories  are  taken  from  his  volume  entitled  "The  Red  Horizon," 
by  permission  of  his  publishers,  George  H.  Doran  Company: 
Copyright  1916. 

*  I— THE  SOLDIER  TELLS  HIS  TALE 

Sometimes  when  our  spell  in  the  trenches  comes  to 


*  All  numerals  relate  to  stories  herein  told — not  to  chapters 
from   original   sources. 

217 


2i8  ''The  Red  Horizon'' 

an  end  we  go  back  for  a  rest  in  some  village  or  town. 
Here  the  estaminet  or  debitant  (French,  as  far  as  I  am 
aware,  for  a  beer  shop),  is  open  to  the  British  soldier 
for  three  hours  daily,  from  twelve  to  one  and  from  six 
to  eight  o'clock.  For  some  strange  reason  we  often  find 
ourselves  busy  on  parade  at  these  hours,  and  when  not 
on  parade  we  generally  find  ourselves  without  money.  I 
have  been  here  for  four  months ;  looking  at  my  pay  book 
I  find  that  Fve  been  paid  25  fr.  (or  in  plain  English,  one 
pound)  since  I  have  come  to  France,  a  country  where 
the  weather  grows  hotter  daily,  where  the  water  is  seldom 
drinkable,  and  where  wine  and  beer  is  so  cheap.  Once  we 
were  paid  five  francs  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  after 
five  penniless  days  of  rest  in  a  village,  and  ordered  as  we 
were  paid,  to  pack  up  our  all  and  get  ready  to  set  off  at 
six  o'clock  for  the  trenches.  From  noon  we  had  been 
playing  cards,  and  some  of  the  boys  gambled  all  their 
pay  in  advance  and  lost  it.  Bill's  five  francs  had  to  be 
distributed  amongst  several  members  of  the  platoon. 

"It's  only  five  francs,  anyway,"  he  said.  "Wot  mat- 
ter whether  I  spend  it  on  cards,  wine,  or  women?  I 
don't  care  for  soldierin'  as  a  profession." 

"What  is  your  profession,  Bill?"  Pryor  asked;  we 
never  really  knew  what  Bill's  civil  occupation  was,  he 
seemed  to  know  a  little  of  many  crafts,  but  was  master 
of  none. 

"Fve  been  everything,"  he  replied,  employing  his  little 
finger  in  the  removal  of  cigarette  ash.  "My  ole  man 
apprenticed  me  to  a  marker  of  'ot  cross  buns,  but  I 
'ad  a  'abit  of  makin'  the  long  end  of  the  cross  on  the 
short  side,  an'  got  chucked  out.  Then  I  learned  'ow  to 
jump  through  tin  plates  in  order  to  make  them  nutmeg 
graters,  but  left  that  job  after  sticking  plump  in  the 
middle  of  a  plate.  I  had  to  stop  there  for  three  days 
without  food  or  drink.    They  were  thinnin'  me  out,  see! 


"The  Red  Horizon"  219 

Then  I  was  a  draughts  manager  at  a  bank,  and  shut  the 
ventilators ;  after  that  I  was  an  electric  mechanic ;  I 
switched  the  Hghts  on  and  off  at  night  and  mornin'; 
now  I'm  a  professional  gambler,  I  lose  all  my  tin." 

"You're  also  a  soldier,"  I  said. 

"Course,  I  am,"  Bill  replied.  "I  can  present  hipes  by 
numbers,  and  knock  the  guts  out  of  sand-bags  at  five 
hundred  yards." 

II— A  NIGHT  MARCH  IN  THE  RAIN 

We  did  not  leave  the  village  until  eight  o'clock.  It 
was  now  very  dark  and  had  begun  to  rain,  not  real  rain, 
but  a  thin  drizzle  which  mixed  up  with  the  flashes  of 
guns,  the  glow  of  star-shells,  the  long  tremulous  glimmer 
of  flashlights,  the  blood  red  blaze  of  haystacks  afire  near 
Givenchy,  threw  a  sombre  haze  over  our  line  of  march. 
Even  through  the  haze,  star-shells  showed  brilliant  in 
their  many  different  colours,  red,  green,  and  electric 
white.  The  French  send  up  a  beautiful  light  which 
bursts  into  four  different  flames  that  burn  standing  high 
in  mid-air  for  five  minutes ;  another,  a  parachute  star, 
holds  the  sky  for  three  minutes,  and  almost  blots  its  more 
remote  sisters  from  the  heavens.  The  English  and  the 
Germans  are  content  to  fling  rockets  across  and  observe 
one  another's  lines  while  these  flare  out  their  brief  me- 
teoric life.  The  fi^ring-line  was  about  five  miles  away ; 
the  star-lights  seemed  to  rise  and  fall  just  beyond  an 
adjacent  spinney,  so  deceptive  are  they. 

Part  of  our  journey  ran  along  the  bank  of  a  canal; 
there  had  been  some  heavy  fighting  the  night  previous, 
and  the  wounded  were  still  coming  down  by  barges,  only 
those  who  are  badly  hurt  come  this  way,  the  less  serious 
cases  go  by  motor  ambulance  from  dressing  station  to 
hospital — those  who  are  damaged  slightly  in  arm  or  head 


220  *'The  Red  Horizon" 

generally  walk.  Here  we  encountered  a  party  of  men 
marching  in  single  file  with  rifles,  skeleton  equipment, 
picks  and  shovels.  In  the  dark  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish the  regimental  badge. 

"Oo  are  yer?"  asked  Bill,  who,  like  a  good  many  more 
of  us,  was  smoking  a  cigarette  contrary  to  orders. 

"The  Camberwell  Gurkhas,"  came  the  answer.  "Oo 
are  yer?" 

"The  Chelesa  Cherubs,"  said  Bill.    "Up  workin'?" 

"Doin'  a  bit  between  the  lines,"  answered  one  of  the 
working  party.     "Got  bombed  out  and  were  sent  back." 

"Lucky  dogs,  goin'  back  for  a  kip  (sleep)." 

"  'Ad  two  killed  and  seven  wounded." 

"Blimey !" 

"Good  luck,  boys,"  said  the  disappearing  file  as  the 
darkness  swallowed  up  the  working  party. 

The  pace  was  a  sharp  one.  Half  a  mile  back  from 
the  firing-line  we  turned  off  to  the  left  and  took  our  way 
by  a  road  running  parallel  to  the  trenches.  We  had  put 
on  our  waterproof  capes,  our  khaki  overcoats  had  been 
given  up  a  week  before. 

The  rain  dripped  down  our  clothes,  our  faces  and  our 
necks,  each  successive  star-light  showed  the  water  trick- 
ling down  our  rifle  butts  and  dripping  to  the  roadway. 
Stoner  slept  as  he  marched,  his  hand  in  Kore's.  We 
often  move  along  in  this  way,  it  is  quite  easy,  there  is 
lullaby  in  the  monotonous  step,  and  the  slumbrous  crunch- 
ing of  nailed  boots  on  gravel. 

We  turned  off  the  road  where  it  runs  through  the 
rubble  and  scattered  bricks,  all  that  remains  of  the  village 
of  Givenchy,  and  took  our  way  across  a  wide  field.  The 
field  was  under  water  in  the  wet  season,  and  a  brick 
pathway  had  been  built  across  it.  Along  this  path  we 
took  our  way.  A  strong  breeze  had  risen  and  was  swish- 
ing our  waterproofs  about  our  bodies;  the  darkness  was 


''The  Red  Horizon"  221 

intense,  I  had  to  strain  my  eyes  to  see  the  man  in  front, 
Stoner.  In  the  darkness  he  was  a  nebulous  dark  bulk 
that  sprang  into  bold  relief  when  the  star-lights  flared 
in  front.  When  the  flare  died  out  we  stumbled  forward 
into  pitch  dark  nothingness.  The  pathway  was  barely 
two  feet  across,  a  mere  tight-rope  in  the  wide  waste, 
and  on  either  side  nothing  stood  out  to  give  relief  to  the 
desolate  scene;  over  us  the  clouds  hung  low,  shapeless 
and  gloomy,  behind  was  the  darkness,  in  front  when  the 
star-lights  made  the  darkness  visible  they  only  increased 
the  sense  of  solitude. 

We  stumbled  and  fell,  rose  and  fell  again,  our  capes 
spreading  out  like  wings  and  our  rifles  falling  in  the  mud. 
The  sight  of  a  man  or  woman  falling  always  makes  me 
laugh.  I  laughed  as  I  fell,  as  Stoner  fell,  as  Mervin, 
Goliath,  Bill,  or  Pryor  fell.  Sometimes  we  fell  singly, 
again  in  pairs,  often  we  fell  together  a  heap  of  rifles, 
khaki,  and  waterproof  capes.  We  rose  grumbling,  spit- 
ting mud  and  laughing.  Stoner  was  very  unfortunate,  a 
particle  of  dirt  got  into  his  eye,  almost  blinding  him. 
Afterwards  he  crawled  along,  now  and  again  getting  to 
his  feet,  merely  to  fall  back  into  his  earthy  position. 
A  rifle  fire  opened  on  us  from  the  front,  and  bullets 
whizzed  past  our  ears,  voices  mingled  with  the  ting  of 
searching  bullets. 

"Anybody  hurt?" 

"No,  all  right  so  far." 

"Stoner's  down." 

"He's  up  again." 

"Blimey,  it's  a  balmy." 

"Mervin's  crawling  on  his  hands  and  knees." 

"Nark  the  doin's,'  ye're  on  my  water  proof.    Let  go !" 

"Goliath's  down." 

"Are  you  struck,  Goliath?" 

"No,  I  wish  to  heaven  I  was,"  muttered  the  giant, 


222  "The  Red  Horizon'' 

bulking  up  in  the  flare  of  a  searchlight,  blood  dripping 
from  his  face  showed  where  he  had  been  scratched  as  he 
stumbled. 

We  got  safely  into  the  trench  and  relieved  the  High- 
land Light  Infantry.  The  place  was  very  quiet,  they 
assured  us,  it  is  always  the  same.  It  has  become  trench 
etiquette  to  tell  the  relieving  battalion  that  it  is  taking 
over  a  cushy  position.  By  this  trench  next  morning  we 
found  six  newly  made  graves,  telling  how  six  Highland- 
ers had  met  their  death,  killed  in  action. 

Ill— "THE  DEAD  MAN  UNDER  MY  FEET" 

Next  morning  as  I  was  looking  through  a  periscope  at 
the  enemy's  trenches,  and  wondering  what  was  happen- 
ing behind  their  sand-bag  line,  a  man  from  the  sanitary 
squad  came  along  sprinkling  the  trench  with  creosote  and 
chloride  of  lime. 

"Seein'  anything?"  he  asked. 

"Not  much,"  I  answered,  "the  grass  is  so  high  in 
front  that  I  can  see  nothing  but  the  tips  of  the  enemy's 
parapets.    There's  some  work  for  you  here,"  I  said. 

"Where?" 

"Under  your  feet,"  I  told  him.  "The  floor  is  soft  as 
putty  and  smells  vilely.  Perhaps  there  is  a  dead  man 
there.  Last  night  I  slept  by  the  spot  and  it  turned  me 
sick." 

"Have  you  an  entrenchin'  tool?" 

I  handed  him  the  implement,  he  dug  into  the  ground 
and  presently  unearthed  a  particle  of  clothing,  five  min- 
utes later  a  boot  came  to  view,  then  a  second ;  fifteen 
minutes  assiduous  labour  revealed  an  evil-smelling  bundle 
of  clothing  and  decayed  flesh.  I  still  remained  an  on- 
looker, but  changed  my  position  on  the  banquette. 

"He   must   have   been   dead   a   long  time,"   said   the 


*'The  Red  Horizon'*  223 

sanitary  man,  as  he  flung  handfuls  of  lime  on  the  body, 
"see  his  face." 

He  turned  the  thing  on  its  back,  its  face  up  to  the 
sky.  The  features  were  wonderfully  well-preserved ;  the 
man  might  have  fallen  the  day  before.  The  nose  pinched 
and  thin,  turned  up  a  little  at  the  point,  the  lips  were 
drawn  tight  round  the  gums,  the  teeth  showed  dog-like 
and  vicious ;  the  eyes  were  open  and  raised  towards  the 
forehead,  and  the  whole  face  was  splashed  with  clotted 
blood.  A  wound  could  be  seen  on  the  left  temple,  the 
fatal  bullet  had  gone  through  there. 

"He  was  killed  in  the  winter,"  said  the  sanitary  man, 
pointing  at  the  gloves  on  the  dead  soldier's  hand.  "These 
trenches  were  the  'Allemands' '  then,  and  the  boys 
charged  'em.  I  suppose  this  feller  copped  a  packet  and 
dropped  into  the  mud  and  was  tramped  down." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked. 

IV— A  CRUCIFIX  AND  A  LOVE  LETTER 

The  man  with  the  chloride  of  lime  opened  the  tunic  and 
shirt  of  the  dead  man  and  brought  out  an  identity  disc. 

"Irish,"  he  said,  "Munster  Fusiliers.  What's  this?" 
he  asked,  taking  a  string  of  beads  with  a  little  shiny 
crucifix  on  the  end  of  it,  from  the  dead  man's  neck. 

"It's  his  rosary,"  I  said,  and  my  mind  saw  in  a  vivid 
picture  a  barefooted  boy  going  over  the  hills  of  Corry- 
meela  to  morning  l^Iass,  with  his  beads  in  his  hand.  On 
either  side  rose  the  thatched  cabins  of  the  peasantry,  the 
peat  smoke  curling  from  the  chimneys,  the  little  boreens 
running  through  the  bushes,  the  brown  Irish  bogs,  the 
heather  in  blossom,  the  turf  stacks,  the  laughing 
colleens.  .  .  ." 

"Here's  a  letter,"  said  the  sanitary  man ;  "it  was  posted 
last  Christmas.    It's  from  a  girl,  too." 


224  ''The  Red  Horizon'' 

He  commenced  reading: — 

"My  dear  Patrick, — I  got  your  letter  yesterday,  and 
whenever  I  was  my  lone  the  day  I  was  always  reading 
it.  I  wish  the  black  war  was  over  and  you  back  again — 
we  all  at  home  wish  that,  and  I  suppose  yourself  wishes 
it  as  well ;  I  was  up  at  your  house  last  night ;  there's  not 
much  fun  in  it  now.  I  read  the  papers  to  your  mother, 
and  me  and  her  was  looking  at  a  map.  But  we  didn't 
know  where  you  were  so  we  could  only  make  guesses. 
Your  mother  and  me  is  making  the  Rounds  of  the  Cross 
for  you,  and  I  am  always  thinking  of  you  in  my  prayers. 
You'll  be  having  the  parcel  I  sent  before  you  get  this 
letter.  I  hope  it's  not  broken  or  lost.  The  socks  I  sent 
were  knitted  by  myself,  three  pairs  of  them,  and  I've  put 
the  holy  water  on  them.  Don't  forget  to  put  them  on 
when  your  feet  get  wet,  at  home  you  never  used  to  bother 
about  anything  like  that ;  just  tear  about  the  same  in  wet 
as  dry.  But  you'll  take  care  of  yourself  now,  won't  you : 
and  not  get  killed?  It'll  be  a  grand  day  when  you  come 
back,  and  God  send  the  day  to  come  soon !  Send  a  letter 
as  often  as  you  can ;  I  myself  will  write  you  one  every 
day,  and  I'll  pray  to  the  Holy  Mother  to  take  care  of 
you." 

We  buried  him  behind  the  parados,  and  placed  the 
rosary  round  the  arms  of  the  cross  which  was  erected 
over  him.  On  the  following  day  one  of  our  men  went 
out  to  see  the  grave,  and  while  stooping  to  place  some 
flowers  on  it  he  got  shot  through  the  head.  That  evening 
he  was  buried  beside  the  Munster  Fusilier. 

(Patrick  MacGill  tells  many  heart  stories  of  the 
trenches  in  "The  Red  Horizon."  He  tells  of  "The  Night 
Before  the  Trenches" ;  "A  Dugout  Banquet" ;  "A  Noc- 
turnal Adventure" ;  "Everyday  Life  at  the  Front" ;  "The 
Women  of  France" — his  genius  is  immortalizing  every 
human  phase  of  the  War.) 


MY  TRIP  TO  VERDUN— GENERAL 
PETAIN  FACE  TO  FACE 

From  Graves  of  the  Marne  to  Hills  of  the  Meuse 

Told  by  Frank  H.  Simonds,  Famous  American  War 
Historian 


Mr.  Simonds  is  the  first  great  historian  that  this  war  produced. 
He  traveled  over  the  battle-fields  to  record  for  history  the 
world-revolutionizing  events  as  they  were  taking  place.  As  the 
inltimate  friend  of  Governments,  General  Staffs  and  diplomats, 
he  gathered  his  knowledge  first  hand  and  became  recognized 
throughout  America  and  Europe  as  the  historical  authority  on 
the  war's  strategy.  His  judgments  were  weighed  by  such  men 
as  President  Poincare  and  Lloyd-George — and  followed  with 
interest  by  the  officers  of  the  armies.  Mr.  Simonds  had  been 
studying  military  strategy  for  many  years  before  the  war ;  he 
was  an  authority  on  the  Napoleonic  campaigns — ^but  it  was  not 
until  the  Great  War  that  the  "man  and  the  opportunity  met." 
He  was  then  an  editorial  writer  on  the  New  York  Sun,  where 
his  first  prophetic  editorials  gained  him  immediate  recognition. 
He  later  became  associate  editor  of  the  New  York  Tribune.  His 
reviews  of  the  war  began  to  appear  in  the  American  Review  of 
Reviews,  for  whom  he  produced  his  great  five-volume  "History 
of  the  World  War" — a  work  for  the  generations.  We  can  tell 
here  but  one  of  his  brilliant  stories — his  "Visit  to  Verdun." 

I-~"I  START  FOR  VERDUN— V^ITH  THE 
PRESIDENT'S  PERMIT" 

My  road  to  Verdun  ran  through  the  Elysee  Palace,  and 
it  was  to  the  courtesy  and  interest  of  the  President  of 
the  French  Republic  that  I  owed  my  opportunity  to  see 
the  battle  for  the  Meuse  city  at  close  range.  Already 
through  the  kindness  of  the  French  General  Staff  I  had 

225 


226  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

seen  the  Lorraine  and  Marne  battlegrounds  and  had  been 
guided  over  these  fields  by  officers  who  had  shared  in 
the  opening  battles  that  saved  France.  But  Verdun  was 
more  difficult ;  there  is  little  time  for  caring  for  the  wan- 
dering correspondent  when  a  decisive  contest  is  going 
forward,  and  quite  naturally  the  General  Staff  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  my  request. 

Through  the  kindness  of  one  of  the  many  French- 
men who  gave  time  and  effort  to  make  my  pilgrimage  a 
success  I  was  at  last  able  to  see  M.  Poincare.  Like  our 
own  American  President,  the  French  Chief  Magistrate  is 
never  interviewed,  and  I  mention  this  audience  simply 
because  it  was  one  more  and  in  a  sense  the  final  proof 
for  me  of  the  friendliness,  the  courtesy,  the  interest  that 
the  American  will  find  to-day  in  France.  I  had  gone  to 
Paris,  my  ears  filled  with  the  warnings  of  those  who  told 
me  that  it  was  hard  to  be  an  American  in  Europe,  in 
France,  in  the  present  hour.  I  had  gone  expecting,  or  at 
least  fearing,  that  I  should  find  it  so. 

Instead,  from  peasant  to  President  I  found  only  kind- 
ness, only  gratitude,  only  a  profound  appreciation  for 
all  that  Americans  had  individually  done  for  France  in 
the  hour  of  her  great  trial.  These  things  and  one  thing 
more  I  found :  a  very  intense  desire  that  Americans 
should  be  able  to  see  for  themselves ;  the  Frenchmen  will 
not  talk  to  you  of  what  France  has  done,  is  doing;  he 
shrinks  from  anything  that  might  suggest  the  imitation 
of  the  German  method  of  propaganda.  In  so  far  as  it  is 
humanly  possible  he  would  have  you  see  the  thing  for 
yourself  and  testify  out  of  your  own  mouth. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  all  my  difficulties  vanished 
when  I  had  been  permitted  to  express  to  the  President 
my  desire  to  see  Verdun  and  to  go  back  to  America — 
I  was  sailing  within  the  week — able  to  report  what  I  had 
seen  with  my  own  eyes  of  the  decisive  battle  still  going 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  227 

forward  around  the  Lorraine  city.  Without  further  de- 
lay, discussion,  it  was  promised  that  I  should  go  to  Ver- 
dun by  motor,  that  I  should  go  cared  for  by  the  French 
military  authorities  and  that  I  should  be  permitted  to  see 
all  that  one  could  see  at  the  moment  of  the  contest. 

We  left  Paris  in  the  early  afternoon ;  my  companions 
were  M.  Henri  Ponsot,  chief  of  the  Press  Service  of 
the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs,  and  M.  Hugues  le 
Roux,  a  distinguished  Frenchman  of  letters  well  known 
to  many  Americans.  To  start  for  the  battlefield  from 
a  busy,  peaceful  city,  to  run  for  miles  through  suburbs 
as  quiet  and  lacking  in  martial  aspect  as  the  regions  be- 
yond the  Harlem,  at  home,  was  a  thing  that  seemed  al- 
most unreal;  but  only  for  a  brief  moment,  for  war  has 
come  very  near  to  Paris,  and  one  may  not  travel  far  in 
Eastern  France  without  seeing  its  signs. 

In  less  than  an  hour  we  were  passing  the  rear  of  the 
line  held  by  the  British  at  the  Battle  of  the  Marne,  and 
barely  sixty  minutes  after  w^e  had  passed  out  through 
the  Vincennes  gate  we  met  at  Courtacon  the  first  of  the 
ruined  villages  that  for  two  hundred  miles  line  the  road- 
ways that  lead  from  the  capital  to  Lorraine  and  Cham- 
pagne. Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  peaceful  countryside, 
after  passing  a  score  of  undisturbed  villages,  villages  so 
like  one  another,  you  come  to  one  upon  which  the  storm 
has  burst,  and  instead  of  snug  houses,  smiling  faces,  the 
air  of  contentment  and  happiness  that  was  France,  there 
is  only  a  heap  of  ruins,  houses  with  their  roofs  gone, 
their  walls  torn  by  shell  fire,  villages  abandoned  partially 
or  wholly,  contemporary  Pompeiis,  overtaken  by  the  Ve- 
suvius of  Krupp. 

n~THE  GRAVES  BY  THE  ROADSIDE 

Coincidentally  there  appear  along  the  roadside,  in  the 


228  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

fields,  among  the  plough  furrows,  on  every  side,  the 
crosses  that  mark  the  graves  of  those  who  died  for 
France — or  for  Germany.  Along  the  slope  you  may  mark 
the  passage  of  a  charge  by  these  crosses;  those  who  fell 
were  buried  as  they  lay,  French  and  Germans  with  equal 
care.  Indeed,  there  is  a  certain  pride  visible  in  all  that 
the  French  do  for  their  dead  foes.  Alongside  a  ham- 
let wantonly  burned,  burned  by  careful  labor  and  with 
German  thoroughness ;  in  villages  where  you  will  be  told 
of  nameless  atrocities  and  shameful  killings,  you  will 
see  the  German  graves,  marked  by  neat  crosses,  sur- 
rounded by  sod  embankments,  marked  with  plaques  of 
black  and  white;  the  French  are  marked  by  plaques  of 
red,  white  and  blue,  and  the  latter  invariably  decorated 
with  a  flag  and  flowers. 

Once  you  have  seen  these  graves  by  the  roadside  going 
east  you  will  hardly  go  a  mile  in  two  hundred  which  has 
not  its  graves.  From  the  environs  of  Meaux,  a  scant 
twenty  miles  from  Paris,  to  the  frontier  at  the  Seille,  be- 
yond Nancy,  there  are  graves  and  more  graves,  now  scat- 
tered, now  crowded  together  where  men  fought  hand  to 
hand.  Passing  them  in  a  swift-moving  auto,  they  seem 
to  march  by  you ;  there  is  the  illusion  of  an  arrow  ad- 
vancing on  the  hillside,  until  at  last,  beyond  Nancy,  where 
the  fighting  was  so  terrible,  about  little  villages  such  as 
Corbessaux,  you  come  to  the  great  common  graves,  where 
a  hundred  or  two  hundred  men  have  been  gathered,  where 
the  trenches  now  levelled  are  but  long  graves,  and  you 
read,  "Here  rest  179  French  soldiers,"  or  across  the  road, 
"Here  196  Germans." 

Take  a  map  of  France  and  from  a  point  just  south  of 
Paris  draw  a  straight  line  to  the  Vosges ;  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  to  the  north  draw  another.  Between  the  two  is  the 
black  district  of  the  Marne  and  Nancy  battles.  It  is  the 
district   of   ruined  villages,   destroyed   farms;   it   is   the 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  229 

region  where  every  hillside — so  it  will  seem  to  the  trav- 
eler— is  marked  by  these  pathetic  crosses.  It  is  a  region 
in  which  the  sense  of  death  and  destruction  is  abroad. 
Go  forty  miles  north  again  and  draw  two  more  lines,  and 
this  is  the  region  not  of  the  death  and  destruction  of 
yesterday,  but  of  to-day;  this  is  the  front,  where  the 
graves  are  still  in  the  making,  the  region  of  the  Oise  to 
the  Meuse,  from  Noyon  to  Verdun. 

On  this  day  our  route  led  eastward  through  the  vil- 
lages which  in  September,  1914,  woke  from  at  least  a 
century  of  oblivion,  from  the  forgetting  that  followed 
Napoleon's  last  campaign  in  France  to  a  splendid  but 
terrible  ten  days :  Courtacon,  Sezanne,  La-Fere  Champe- 
noise,  Vitry-le-Frangois,  the  region  where  Franchet  d'Es- 
perey  and  Foch  fought,  where  the  ''Miracle  of  the  Marne" 
was  performed.  Mile  after  mile  the  country-side  files 
by,  the  never  changing  impression  of  a  huge  cemetery,  the 
hugest  in  the  world,  the  stricken  villages,  now  and  then 
striving  to  begin  again,  a  red  roof  here  and  there  telling 
of  the  first  counter  offensive  of  peace,  of  construction 
made  against  the  whirlwind  that  had  come  and  gone. 

Ill— ''NOTHING  BUT  OLD  MEN  AND  WOMEN— 
AND  CHILDREN" 

Always,  too,  nothing  but  old  men  and  women,  these  and 
children,  working  in  the  broad  fields,  still  partially  culti- 
vated, but  no  longer  the  fields  of  that  perfectly  cared 
for  France  of  the  other  peace  days.  Women  and  children 
at  the  plough,  old  men  bent  double  by  age  still  spending 
such  strength  as  is  left  in  the  tasks  that  war  has  set  for 
them.  This  is  the  France  behind  the  front,  and,  aside 
from  the  ruined  villages  and  graves,  the  France  that 
stretches  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Marne,  a  France  from 
which  youth  and  manhood  are  gone,  in  which  age  and 
childhood  remain  with  the  women.    Yet  in  this  land  we 


230  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

were  passing  how  much  of  the  youth  and  manhood  of 
France  and  Germany  was  buried  in  the  graves  the  crosses 
demonstrated  at  every  kilometer. 

But  a  hundred  miles  east  of  Paris  there  begins  a  new 
world.  The  graves,  the  shell-cursed  villages,  remain,  but 
this  is  no  longer  the  France  of  the  Marne  fighting  and 
of  the  war  of  two  years  ago.  At  Vitry-le-Frangois  you 
pass  almost  without  warning  into  the  region  which  is  the 
back  of  the  front  of  to-day,  the  base  of  all  the  line  of 
fire  from  Rheims  to  the  Meuse,  and  suddenly  along  the 
road  appear  the  canvas  guideposts  which  bear  the  terse 
warning,  "Verdun."  You  pass  suddenly  from  ancient  to 
contemporary  history,  from  the  killing  of  other  years  to 
the  killing  that  is  of  to-day — the  killing  and  the  wound- 
ing— and  along  the  hills  where  there  are  still  graves  there 
begin  to  appear  Red  Cross  tents  and  signs,  and  ambu- 
lances pass  you  bearing  the  latest  harvest. 

And  now  every  village  is  a  garrison  town.  For  a 
hundred  miles  there  have  been  only  women  and  old  men, 
but  now  there  are  only  soldiers ;  they  fill  the  streets ;  they 
crowd  the  doorways  of  the  houses.  The  fields  are  filled 
with  tents,  with  horses,  with  all  the  impedimenta  of  an 
army.  The  whole  country-side  is  a  place  of  arms.  Every 
branch  of  French  service  is  about  you — Tunisians,  Tur- 
cos,  cavalry,  the  black,  the  brown  and  the  white — the 
men  who  yesterday  or  last  week  were  in  the  first  line, 
who  rest  and  will  return  to-morrow  or  next  day  to  fight 
again. 

Unmistakably,  too,  you  feel  that  this  is  the  business 
of  war ;  you  are  in  a  factory,  a  machine  shop ;  if  the  prod- 
uct is  death  and  destruction,  it  is  no  less  a  matter  of 
machinery,  not  of  romance,  of  glamour.  The  back  of  the 
front  is  a  place  of  work  and  of  rest  for  more  work,  but 
of  parade,  of  the  brilliant,  of  the  fascinating  there  is  just 
nothing.     Men  with  bright  but  plainly  weary  faces,  not 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  231 

young  men,  but  men  of  thirty  and  above,  hard  bitten  by 
their  experience,  patently  fit,  fed,  but  somehow  related 
to  the  ruins  and  the  destruction  around  them,  they  are 
all  about  you,  and  wherever  now  you  see  a  grave  you 
will  discover  a  knot  of  men  standing  before  it  talking 
soberly.  Wherever  you  see  the  vestiges  of  an  old  trench, 
a  hill  that  was  fought  for  at  this  time  twenty  months  ago, 
you  will  see  new  practice  trenches  and  probably  the  re- 
cruits .  .  .  the  boys  that  are  waiting  for  the  call,  listen- 
ing to  an  officer  explaining  to  them  what  has  been  done 
here,  the  mistake  or  the  good  judgment  revealed  by  the 
event.  For  France  is  training  the  youth  that  remains  to 
her  on  the  still  recent  battlefields  and  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  died  to  keep  the  ground. 

IV—"  WE  JOIN  THE  VAST  PROCESSION  OF 
DEATH" 

Just  as  the  darkness  came  we  passed  St.  Dizier  and  en- 
tered at  last  upon  the  road  to  Verdun,  the  one  road  that 
is  the  life  line  of  the  city.  For  to  understand  the  real 
problem  of  the  defence  of  Verdun  you  must  realize  that 
there  is  lacking  to  the  city  any  railroad.  In  September, 
1914,  the  Germans  took  St.  Mihiel  and  cut  the  railway 
coming  north  along  the  Meuse.  On  their  retreat  from 
the  Marne  the  soldiers  of  the  Crown  Prince  halted  at 
Montfaucon  and  Varennes,  and  their  cannon  have  com- 
manded the  Paris- Verdun-Metz  railroad  ever  since.  Save 
for  a  crazy  narrow-gauge  line  wandering  along  the  hill 
slopes,  climbing  by  impossible  grades,  Verdun  is  without 
rail  communication. 

It  was  this  that  made  the  defence  of  the  town  next 
to  impossible.  Partially  to  remedy  the  defect  the  French 
had  reconstructed  a  local  highway  running  from  St.  Dizier 
by  Bar-le-Duc  to  Verdun  beyond  the  reach  of  German 


232  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

artillery.  To-day  an  army  of  a  quarter  of  a  million 
of  men,  the  enormous  parks  of  heavy  artillery  and  field 
guns — everything  is  supplied  by  this  one  road  and  by 
motor  transport. 

Coming  north  from  St.  Dizier  we  entered  this  vast 
procession.  Mile  after  mile  the  caravan  stretched  on, 
fifty  miles  with  hardly  a  break  of  a  hundred  feet  between 
trucks.  Paris  'buses,  turned  into  vehicles  to  bear  fresh 
meat ;  new  motor  trucks  built  to  carry  thirty-five  men  and 
traveling  in  companies,  regiments,  brigades ;  wagons  from 
the  hood  of  which  soldiers,  bound  to  replace  the  killed 
and  wounded  of  yesterday,  looked  down  upon  you  calmly 
but  unsmilingly.  From  St.  Dizier  to  Verdun  the  im- 
pression was  of  that  of  the  machinery  by  which  logs  are 
carried  to  the  saw  in  a  mill.  You  felt  unconsciously, 
yet  unmistakably,  that  you  were  looking,  not  upon  auto- 
mobiles, not  upon  separate  trucks,  but  upon  some  vast 
and  intricate  system  of  belts  and  benches  that  were  stead- 
ily, swiftly,  surely  carrying  all  this  vast  material,  car- 
rying men  and  munitions  and  supplies,  everything  human 
and  inanimate,  to  that  vast  grinding  mill  which  was  be- 
yond the  hills,  the  crushing  machine  which  worked  with 
equal  remorselessness  upon  men  and  upon  things. 

Now  and  again,  too,  over  the  hills  came  the  Red  Cross 
ambulances;  they  passed  you  returning  from  the  front 
and  bringing  within  their  carefully  closed  walls  the  fin- 
ished product,  the  fruits  of  the  day's  grinding,  or  a  frac- 
tion thereof.  And  about  the  whole  thing  there  was  a 
sense  of  the  mechanical  rather  than  the  human,  some- 
thing that  suggested  an  automatic,  a  machine-driven, 
movement ;  it  was  as  if  an  unseen  system  of  belts  and 
engines  and  levers  guided,  moved,  propelled  this  long 
procession  upward  and  ever  toward  the  mysterious  front 
where  the  knives  or  the  axes  or  the  grinding  stones  did 
their  work. 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  233 

Night  came  down  upon  us  along  the  road  and  brought 
a  new  impression.  Mile  on  mile  over  the  hills  and  'round 
the  curves,  disappearing  in  the  woods,  reappearing  on  the 
distant  summits  of  the  hills,  each  showing  a  rear  light 
that  wagged  crazily  on  the  horizon,  this  huge  caravan 
flowed  onward,  while  in  the  villages  and  on  the  hillsides 
campfires  flashed  up  and  the  faces  or  the  figures  of  the 
soldiers  could  be  seen  now  clearly  and  now  dimly.  But 
all  else  was  subordinated  to  the  line  of  moving  transports. 
Somewhere  far  off  at  one  end  of  the  procession  there  was 
battle;  somewhere  down  below  at  the  other  end  there 
was  peace.  There  all  the  resources,  the  life  blood,  the 
treasure  in  men  and  in  riches  of  France  were  concentrat- 
ing and  collecting,  were  being  fed  into  this  motor  fleet, 
which  like  baskets  on  ropes  was  carrying  it  forward  to 
the  end  of  the  line  and  then  bringing  back  what  remained, 
or  for  the  most  part  coming  back  empty,  for  more — for 
more  lives  and  more  treasure. 

It  was  full  night  when  our  car  came  down  the  curved 
grades  into  Bar-le-Duc,  halted  at  the  corner,  where  sol- 
diers performed  the  work  of  traffic  policemen  and  steadily 
guided  the  caravan  toward  the  road  marked  by  a  canvas 
sign  lighted  v/ithin  by  a  single  candle  and  bearing  the  one 
word,  "Verdun."  All  night,  too,  the  rumble  of  the  pass- 
ing transport  filled  the  air  and  the  little  hotel  shook  with 
the  jar  of  the  heavy  trucks,  for  neither  by  day  nor  by 
night  is  there  a  halt  in  the  motor  transport,  and  the  sound 
of  this  grinding  is  never  low. 

V— "TO  VERDUN"— THE  NEW  CALVARY 

It  was  little  more  than  daylight  when  we  took  the  road 
again,  with  a  thirty-mile  drive  to  Verdun  before  us.  Al- 
most immediately  we  turned  into  the  Verdun  route  we 
met  again  the  caravan  of  automobiles,  of  camions,  as  the 
French  say.    It  still  flowed  on  without  break.    Now,  too, 


234  ^y  '^^^P  ^0  Verdun 

we  entered  the  main  road,  the  one  road  to  Verdun,  the 
road  that  had  been  built  by  the  French  army  against  just 
such  an  attack  as  was  now  in  progress.  The  road  was 
as  wide  as  Fifth  Avenue,  as  smooth  as  asphalt — a  road 
that,  when  peace  comes,  if  it  ever  does,  will  delight  the 
motorist.  Despite  the  traffic  it  had  to  bear,  it  was  in  per- 
fect repair,  and  soldiers  in  uniform  sat  by  the  side  break- 
ing stone  and  preparing  metal  to  keep  it  so. 

The  character  of  the  country  had  now  changed.  We 
were  entering  the  region  of  the  hills,  between  the  Aisne 
and  the  Meuse,  a  country  reminiscent  of  New  England. 
Those  hills  are  the  barrier  which  beyond  the  Meuse,  under 
the  names  of  the  Cote  de  Meuse,  have  been  the  scene  of 
so  much  desperate  fighting.  The  roads  that  sidled  off  to 
the  east  bore  battle  names,  St.  Mihiel,  Troyon,  and  the 
road  that  we  followed  was  still  marked  at  every  turn 
with  the  magic  word  "Verdun."  Our  immediate  objec- 
tive was  Souilly,  the  obscure  hill  town  twenty  miles,  per- 
haps, south  of  the  front,  from  which  Sarrail  had  de- 
fended Verdun  in  the  Marne  days  and  from  which  Pe- 
tain  was  now  defending  Verdun  against  a  still  more  ter- 
rible attack. 

And  in  France  to-day  one  speaks  only  of  Verdun  and 
Petain.  Soldiers  have  their  day ;  Joff re,  Castelnau,  Foch, 
all  retain  much  of  the  affection  and  admiration  they  have 
deserved,  but  at  the  moment  it  is  the  man  who  has  held 
Verdun  that  France  thinks  of,  and  there  was  the  promise 
for  us  that  at  Souilly  we  should  see  the  man  whose  fame 
had  filled  the  world  in  the  great  and  terrible  weeks.  Up- 
ward and  downward  over  the  hills,  through  more  ruined 
villages,  more  hospitals,  more  camps,  our  march  took  us 
until  after  a  short  hour  we  came  to  Souilly,  general  head- 
quarters of  the  Army  of  Verdun,  of  Petain,  the  center 
of  the  world  for  the  moment. 

Few  towns  have  done  less  to  prepare  for  greatness  than 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  235 

Souilly.  It  boasts  a  single  street  three  inches  deep  in 
the  clay  mud  of  the  spring— a  single  street  through  which 
the  Verdun  route  marches  almost  contemptuously,  the 
same  nest  of  stone  and  plaster  houses,  one  story  high, 
houses  from  which  the  owners  had  departed  to  make  room 
for  generals  and  staff  officers.  This  and  one  thing  more, 
the  Mairie,  the  town  hall,  as  usual  the  one  pretentious 
edifice  of  the  French  hamlet,  and  before  the  stairway  of 
this  we  stopped  and  got  out. 

We  were  at  headquarters.  From  this  little  building, 
devoted  for  perhaps  a  century  to  the  business  of  govern- 
ing the  commune  of  Souilly,  with  its  scant  thousand  of 
people,  Petain  was  defending  Verdun  and  the  fate  of  an 
army  of  250,000  men  at  the  least.  In  the  upstairs  room, 
where  the  town  councillors  had  once  debated  parochial 
questions,  Joffre  and  Castelnau  and  Petain  in  the  ter- 
rible days  of  the  opening  conflict  had  consulted,  argued, 
decided— decided  the  fate  of  France,  so  the  Germans 
had  said,  for  they  had  made  the  fall  of  Verdun  the  as- 
surance of  French  collapse. 

Unconsciously,  too,  you  felt  the  change  in  character 
of  the  population  of  this  village.  There  were  still  the 
soldiers,  the  eternal  gray-blue  uniforms,  but  there  were 
also  "^en  of  a  different  type,  men  of  authorfty.  In  the 
street  your  guides  pointed  out  to  you  General  Herr,  the 
man  who  had  designed  and  planned  and  accomplished 
the  miracle  of  the  motor  transport  that  had  saved  Ver- 
dun— with  the  aid  of  the  brave  men  fighting  somewhere 
not  far  beyond  the  nearest  hills.  He  had  commanded  at 
Verdun  when  the  attack  came,  and  without  hesitation  he 
had  turned  over  his  command  to  Petain,  his  junior  in 
service  and  rank  before  the  war,  given  up  the  glory  and 
become  the  superintendent  of  transport.  Men  spoke  to 
you  of  the  fine  loyalty  of  that  action  with  unconcealed  ad- 
miration. 


236  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

And  then  out  of  the  remoteness  of  Souilly  there  came 
a  voice  familiar  to  an  American.  Bunau-Varilla,  the  man 
of  Panama,  wearing  the  uniform  of  a  commandant  and 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  newly  bestowed  for  some  wonderful 
engineering  achievement,  stepped  forward  to  ask  for  his 
friends  and  yours  of  the  old  "Sun  paper."  I  had  seen 
him  last  in  "The  Sun"  office  in  the  days  when  the  war 
had  just  broken  out  and  he  was  about  to  sail  for  home; 
in  the  days  when  the  Marne  was  still  unfought  and  he 
had  breathed  hope  then  as  he  spoke  with  confidence  now. 

Presently  there  arrived  the  two  officers  whose  duty  it 
was  to  take  me  to  Verdun,  Captain  Henri  Bourdeaux, 
a  man  of  letters  known  to  all  Frenchmen ;  Captain  Made- 
lin,  an  historian,  already  documented  in  the  history  of  the 
war  making  under  his  own  eyes.  .  .  . 

VI— "I  STAND  BEFORE  GENERAL  PETAIN" 

"Were  we  to  see  Verdun?"  This  was  the  first  prob- 
lem. I  had  been  warned  two  days  before  that  the  bom- 
bardment was  raging  and  that  it  was  quite  possible  that 
it  would  be  unsafe  to  go  further.  But  the  news  was  re- 
assuring; Verdun  was  tranquil.  "And  Retain?"  One 
could  not  yet  say. 

Even  as  we  spoke  there  was  a  stirring  in  the  crowd, 
general  saluting,  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  com- 
mander-in-chief as  he  went  quickly  up  the  staircase.  For 
the  rest  we  must  wait.  But  not  for  very  long;  in  a  few 
minutes  there  came  the  welcome  word  that  General  Re- 
tain would  see  us,  would  see  the  stray  American  cor- 
respondent. 

Since  I  saw  Retain  m  the  little  Mairie  at  Souilly  I 
have  seen  many  photographs  of  him,  but  none  in  any  real 
measure  give  the  true  picture  of  the  defender  of  Verdun. 
He  saw  us  in  his  office,  the  bare  upstairs  room,  two  years 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  237 

ago  the  office  of  the  Mayor  of  Souilly.  Think  of  the 
Selectmen's  office  in  any  New  England  village  and  the 
picture  will  be  accurate.  A  bare  room,  a  desk,  one  chair, 
a  telephone,  nothing  on  the  walls  but  two  maps,  one  of 
the  military  zone,  one  of  the  actual  front  and  positions 
of  the  Verdun  fighting.  A  bleak  room,  barely  heated  by 
the  most  primitive  of  stoves.  From  the  single  window 
one  looked  down  on  the  cheerless  street  along  which  lum- 
bered the  caravan  of  autos.  On  the  pegs  against  the  wall 
hung  the  General's  hat  and  coat,  weather-stained,  faded, 
the  clothes  of  a  man  who  worked  in  all  weathers.  Of 
staff  officers,  of  uniforms,  of  color  there  was  just  noth- 
ing; of  war  there  was  hardly  a  hint. 

At  the  door  the  commander-in-chief  met  us,  shook 
hands  and  murmured  clearly  and  slowly,  with  incisive 
distinctness,  the  formal  words  of  French  greeting;  he 
spoke  no  English.  Instantly  there  was  the  suggestion  of 
Kitchener,  not  of  Kitchener  as  you  see  him  in  flesh,  but 
in  photographs,  the  same  coldness,  decision.  The  smile 
that  accompanied  the  words  of  welcome  vanished  and  the 
face  was  utterly  motionless,  expressionless.  You  saw  a 
tali,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  every  appearance  of 
physical  strength,  a  clear  blue  eye,  looking  straight  for- 
ward and  beyond. 

My  French  companion,  M.  Le  Roux,  spoke  with  Pe- 
tain.  He  had  just  come  from  Joffre  and  he  told  an  in- 
teresting circumstance.  Petain  listened.  He  said  now 
and  then  "y^s"  or  "no."  Nothing  more.  Watching  him 
narrowly  you  saw  that  occasionally  his  eyes  twitched  a 
little,  the  single  sign  of  fatigue  that  the  long  strain  of 
weeks  of  responsibility  had  brought. 

It  was  hard  to  believe,  looking  at  this  quiet,  calm,  si- 
lent man,  that  you  were  in  the  presence  of  the  soldier 
who  had  won  the  Battle  of  Champagne,  the  man  whom 
the  war  had  surprised  in  the  last  of  his  fifties,  a  Colonel, 


238  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

a,  teacher  of  war  rather  than  a  soldier,  a  professor  like 
Foch. 

No  one  of  Napoleon's  marshals  had  commanded  as 
many  men  as  obeyed  this  Frenchman,  who  was  as  lacking 
in  the  distinction  of  military  circumstances  as  our  own 
Grant.  Napoleon  had  won  all  his  famous  victories  with 
far  fewer  troops  than  were  directed  from  the  telephone 
on  the  table  yonder. 

Every  impression  of  modern  war  that  comes  to  one  ac- 
tually in  touch  with  it  is  a  destruction  of  illusion:  this 
thing  is  a  thing  of  mechanism  rather  than  of  brilliance; 
perhaps  Petain  has  led  a  regiment,  a  brigade,  or  a  di- 
vision to  the  charge.  You  knew  instinctively  in  seeing 
the  man  that  you  would  go  or  come,  as  he  said,  but  there 
was  neither  dash  nor  fire,  nothing  of  the  suggestion  of 
elan ;  rather  there  was  the  suggestion  of  the  commander 
of  a  great  ocean  liner,  the  man  responsible  for  the  lives, 
this  time  of  hundreds  of  thousands,  not  scores,  for  the 
safety  of  France,  not  of  a  ship,  but  the  man  of  machinery 
and  the  master  of  the  wisdom  of  the  tides  and  the 
weather,  not  the  Ney,  or  the  Murat,  not  the  Napoleon  of 
Areola.  The  impression  was  of  a  strong  man  whose  life 
was  a  life  beaten  upon  by  storms;  the  man  on  the  bridge, 
to  keep  to  the  rather  ridiculously  inadequate  figure,  but 
not  by  any  chance  the  man  on  horseback. 

VII— "MY  TALK  WITH  THE  GREAT  FRENCH 
GENERAL" 

My  talk,  our  talk  with  Petain  was  the  matter  of  per- 
haps five  minutes.  .  .  .  Once  he  had  greeted  us  his  face 
settled  into  that  grim  expression  that  never  changed  until 
he  smiled  his  word  of  good  wishes  as  we  left.  Yet  I 
have  since  found  that  apart  from  one  circumstance  which 
I  shall  mention  in  a  moment  I  have  remembered  those 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  239 

minutes  most  clearly  of  all  of  my  Verdun  experience. 
Just  as  the  photograph  does  not  reveal  the  face  of  the 
man,  the  word  does  not  describe  the  sense  of  strength,  of 
responsibility,  that  he  gives. 

In  a  childish  sort  of  way,  exactly  as  one  thinks  of  war 
as  a  matter  of  dash  and  color  and  motion,  one  thinks 
of  the  French  general  as  the  leader  of  a  cavalry  charge 
or  of  a  forlorn  hope  of  infantry.  And  the  French  sol- 
dier of  this  war  has  not  been  the  man  of  charge  or  of 
dash — not  that  he  has  not  charged  as  well  as  ever  in  his 
history,  a  little  more  bravely,  perhaps,  for  machine  guns 
are  new  and  something  worse  than  other  wars  have  had. 
What  the  French  soldier  has  done  has  been  to  stand,  to 
hold,  to  die  not  in  the  onrush  but  on  the  spot. 

And  Petain  in  some  curious  way  has  fixed  in  my  mind 
the  impression  of  the  new  Frenchm.an,  if  there  be  a  new 
one,  or  perhaps  better  of  the  French  soldier  of  to-day, 
whether  he  wear  the  stars  of  the  general  or  undecorated 
"horizon"  blue  of  the  Poilu.  The  look  that  I  saw  in  his 
eyes,  the  calm,  steady,  utterly  emotionless  looking  straight 
forward,  I  saw  everywhere  at  the  front  and  at  the  back 
of  the  front.  It  embodied  for  me  an  enduring  impres- 
sion of  the  spirit  and  the  poise  of  the  French  soldier  of 
the  latest  and  most  terrible  of  French  struggles.  And  I 
confess  that,  more  than  all  I  saw  and  heard  at  the  front 
and  in  Paris,  the  look  of  this  man  convinced  me  that 
Verdun  would  not  fall,  that  France  herself  would  not 
either  weary  or  weaken. 

In  Paris,  where  one  may  hear  anything,  there  are  those 
that  will  tell  you  that  Joffre's  work  is  done  and  that 
France  waits  for  the  man  who  will  complete  the  tasks ; 
that  the  strain  of  the  terrible  months  has  wearied  the 
general  who  won  the  Battle  of  the  Marne  and  saved 
France.  They  will  tell  you,  perhaps,  that  Petain  is  the 
man ;  they  will  certainly  tell  you  that  they  hope  that  the 


240  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

man  has  been  found  in  Petain.  As  to  the  truth  of  all  this 
I  do  not  pretend  to  know. 

There  was  a  Kitchener  legend  in  Europe,  and  I  do  not 
think  it  survives  save  a  little  perhaps  in  corners  of  Eng- 
land. There  was  a  legend  of  a  man  of  ice  and  of  iron, 
a  man  who  made  victory  out  of  human  material  as  a 
man  makes  a  wall  of  mortar  and  stone,  a  man  to  whom 
his  material  was  only  mortar  and  stone,  even  though  it 
were  human.  This  legend  has  perished  so  far  as  Kitch- 
ener is  concerned,  gone  with  so  much  that  England 
trusted  and  believed  two  years  ago,  but  I  find  myself 
thinking  now  of  Petain  as  we  all  thought  of  Kitchener  in 
his  great  day. 

If  I  were  an  officer  I  should  not  like  to  come  to  the 
defender  of  Verdun  with  the  confession  of  failure.  I 
think  I  should  rather  meet  the  Bavarians  in  the  first-line 
trenches,  but  I  should  like  to  know  that  when  I  was 
obeying  orders  I  was  carrying  out  a  minor  detail  of  some- 
thing Petain  had  planned;  I  should  expect  it  to  happen, 
the  thing  that  he  had  arranged,  and  I  should  feel  that 
those  clear,  steel-blue  eyes  had  foreseen  all  that  could 
occur,  foreseen  calmly  and  utterly,  whether  it  entailed  the 
death  of  one  or  a  thousand  men,  of  ten  thousand  men  if 
necessary,  and  had  willed  that  it  should  happen. 

I  do  not  believe  Napoleon's  Old  Guard  would  have 
followed  Petain  as  they  followed  Ney.  I  cannot  fancy 
him  in  the  Imperial  uniform,  and  yet,  now  that  war  is  a 
thing  of  machines,  of  telephones,  of  indirect  fire  and  de- 
struction from  unseen  weapons  at  remote  ranges,  now 
that  the  whole  manner  and  circumstances  of  conflict  have 
changed,  it  is  but  natural  that  the  general  should  change, 
too.  Patently,  Petain  is  of  the  new,  not  the  old,  but  no 
less  patently  he  was  the  master  of  it. 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  241 

VIII— TROOPS  MARCHING  TO  THE  SOUND  OF 
THE  GUNS 

We  left  the  little  Mairie,  entered  our  machines  and  slid 
out  swiftly  for  the  last  miles,  climbed  and  curved  over 
the  final  hill  and  suddenly  looked  down  on  a  deep,  trench- 
like valley  marching  from  east  to  west  and  carrying  the 
Paris- Verdun-Metz  railroad,  no  longer  available  for  traf- 
fic. And  as  we  coasted  down  the  hill  we  heard  the 
guns  .  .  .  not  steadily,  but  only  from  time  to  time,  a  dis- 
tant boom,  a  faint  billowing  up  of  musketry  fire.  Some 
three  or  four  miles  straight  ahead  there  were  the  lines  of 
fire,  beyond  the  brown  hills  that  flanked  the  valley. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  valley  we  turned  east,  moved  on 
for  a  mile  and  stopped  abruptly.  The  guns  were  sound- 
ing more  clearly,  and  suddenly  there  was  a  sense  not  of 
soldiers,  but  of  an  army.  On  one  side  of  the  road  a 
column  was  coming  toward  us,  a  column  of  men  who 
were  leaving  the  trenches  for  a  rest,  the  men  who  for 
the  recent  days  had  held  the  first  line.  Wearily  but  stead- 
ily they  streamed  by ;  the  mud  of  the  trenches  covered 
their  tunics ;  here  and  there  a  man  had  lost  his  steel  hel- 
met and  wore  a  handkerchief  about  his  head,  probably 
to  conceal  a  slight  wound  that  but  for  the  helmet  had 
killed  him. 

These  men  were  smiling  as  they  marched ;  they  carried 
their  full  equipment  and  it  rattled  and  tinkled ;  they  car- 
ried their  guns  at  all  angles,  they  wore  their  uniforms  in 
the  strangest  of  disorders ;  they  seemed  almost  like  min- 
ers coming  from  the  depths  of  the  earth  rather  than  sol- 
diers returning  from  a  decisive  battle,  from  the  hell  of 
modern  shell  fire. 

But  it  was  the  line  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  that 
held  the  eye.  Here  were  the  troops  that  were  going  to- 
ward the  fire,  toward  the  trenches,  that  were  marching 


242  My  Trip  to  Verdun 

to  the  sound  of  the  guns,  and  as  one  saw  them  the  ar- 
tillery rumble  took  on  a  new  distinctness. 

Involuntarily  I  searched  the  faces  of  these  men  as  they 
passed.  They  were  hardly  ten  feet  from  me.  Platoon 
after  platoon,  company  after  company,  whole  regiments 
in  columns  of  fours.  And  seeing  the  faces  brought  an 
instant  shock;  they  all  .  .  .  were  in  the  thirties,  not  the 
twenties ;  men  still  in  the  prime  of  strength,  of  health, 
but  the  fathers  of  families,  the  men  of  full  manhood. 

Almost  in  a  flash  the  fact  came  home.  This  was  what 
all  the  graves  along  the  road  had  meant.  This  was  what 
the  battlefields  and  the  glories  of  the  twenty  months  had 
spelled — France  had  sent  her  youth  and  it  was  spent ;  she 
was  sending  her  manhood  now. 

In  the  line  no  man  smiled  and  no  man  straggled;  the 
ranks  were  closed  up  and  there  were  neither  commands 
nor  any  visible  sign  of  authority.  These  men  who  were 
marching  to  the  sound  of  the  guns  had  been  there  be- 
fore. They  knew  precisely  what  it  meant.  Yet  you 
could  not  but  feel  that  as  they  went  a  little  wearily,  sadly, 
they  marched  willingly.  They  would  not  have  it  other- 
wise. Their  faces  were  the  faces  of  men  who  had  taken 
the  full  measure  of  their  own  fate. 

IX— "THEY  HAD  WILLED  TO  DIE  FOR  FRANCE" 

You  had  a  sense  of  the  loathing,  the  horror,  above  all 
the  sadness  that  was  in  their  hearts  that  this  thing,  this 
war,  this  destruction  had  to  be.  They  had  come  here 
through  all  the  waste  of  ruined  villages  and  shell-torn 
hillsides;  all  the  men  that  you  saw  would  not  measure 
the  cost  of  a  single  hour  of  trench  fighting  if  the  real 
attack  began.  This  these  men  knew,  and  the  message 
of  the  artillery  fire,  which  was  only  one  of  unknown  ter- 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  243 

rors  for  you,  was  intelligible  to  the  utmost  to  each  of 
them. 

And  yet  with  the  weariness  there  was  a  certain  resig- 
nation, a  certain  patience,  a  certain  sense  of  compre- 
hending sacrifice  that  more  than  all  else  is  France  to-day, 
the  true  France.  This,  and  not  the  empty  forts,  not  even 
the  busy  guns,  was  the  wall  that  defended  France,  this 
line  of  men.  If  it  broke  there  would  come  thundering 
down  again  out  of  the  north  all  the  tornado  of  destruc- 
tion that  had  turned  Northeastern  France  into  a  waste 
place  and  wrecked  so  much  of  the  world's  store  of  the 
beautiful  and  the  inspiring. 

Somehow  you  felt  that  this  was  in  the  minds  of  all 
these  men.  They  had  willed  to  die  that  France  might 
live.  They  were  going  to  a  death  that  sounded  ever 
more  clearly  as  they  marched.  This  death  had  eaten 
up  all  that  was  young,  most  of  what  was  young  at  the 
least,  of  France;  it  might  yet  consume  France,  and  so 
these  men  marched  to  the  sound  of  the  guns.  .  .  .  In- 
stinctively I  thought  of  what  Kipling  had  said  to  me  in 
London : 

"Somewhere  over  there,"  he  had  said,  "the  thing  will 
suddenly  grip  your  throat  and  your  heart;  it  will  take 
hold  of  you  as  nothing  in  your  life  has  ever  done  or  ever 
will."    And  I  know  that  I  never  shall  forget  those  lines 
of  quiet,  patient,  middle-aged  men  marching  to  the  sound 
of  the  guns,  leaving  at  their  backs  the  countless  graves 
that  hold  the  youth  of  France,  the  men  who  had  known 
the  Marne,  the  Yser,  Champagne,  who  had  known  death 
for  nearly  two  years,  night  and  day,  almost  constantly. 
Yet  during  the  fifteen  minutes  I  watched  there  was  not_ 
one  order,  not  one  straggler;  there  was  a  sense  of  th''^ 
regularity  with  which  the  blood  flows  through  the  huma 
arteries  in  this  tide,  and  it  was  the  blood  of  France. 


244  ^y  T^^^P  ^0  Verdun 

X— "I  CAN  NEVER  FORGET  THOSE  FACES" 

So  many  people  have  asked  me,  I  had  asked  myself, 
the  question  before  I  went  to  France:  "Are  they  not 
weary  of  it?  Will  the  French  not  give  up  from  sheer 
exhaustion  of  strength?"  I  do  not  think  so,  now  that 
I  have  seen  the  faces  of  these  hundreds  of  men  as  they 
marched  to  the  trenches  beyond  Verdun.  France  may 
bleed  to  death,  but  I  do  not  think  that  while  there  are 
men  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  sacrifice.  No  pen  or 
voice  can  express  the  horror  that  these  men,  that  all 
Frenchmen,  have  of  this  war,  of  all  war,  the  weariness. 
They  hate  it;  you  cannot  mistake  this;  but  France 
marches  to  the  frontier  in  the  spirit  that  men  manned 
the  walls  against  the  barbarians  in  the  other  days ;  there 
is  no  other  way ;  it  must  be. 

Over  and  over  again  there  has  come  the  invariable  an- 

answer;  it  would  have  come  from  scores  and  hundreds 

of  these  men  who  passed  so  near  me  I  could  have  touched 

their  faded  uniforms  if  I  had  asked — "It  is  for  France. 

for  civilization;  it  must  be,  for  there  is  no  other  way; 

we  shall  die,  but  with  us,  with  our  sacrifice,  perhaps  this 

thing  will  end."    You  cannot  put  it  in  words  quite,  I  do 

not  think  even  any  Frenchman  has  quite  said  it,  but  you 

can  see  it,  you  can  feel  it,  you  can  understand  it,  when 

you  see  a  regiment,  a  brigade,  a  division  of  these  men 

of  thirty,  some  perhaps  of  forty,  going  forward  to  the  war 

they  hate  and  will  never  quit  until  that  which  they  love 

^  is  safe  or  they  and  all  their  race  are  swallowed  up.  .  .  . 

^  Under  the  crumbling  gate  of  the  Verdun  fortress  .  .  . 

".is  we  entered  a  shell  burst  just  behind  us  and  the  roar 

^"rowned  out  all  else  in  its  sudden  and  paralyzing  crash. 

^"^  had  fallen,  so  we  learned  a  little  later,  just  where  we 

^*^ad  been  watching  the  passing  troops ;  it  had  fallen  among 

^^iiem  and  killed.     But  an  hour  or  two  later,  when  we 


My  Trip  to  Verdun  245 

repassed  the  point  where  it  fell,  men  were  still  marching 
by.  Other  regiments  of  men  were  still  marching  to  the 
sound  of  the  guns,  and  those  who  had  passed  were  already- 
over  the  hills  and  beyond  the  river,  filing  into  the  trenches 
in  time,  so  it  turned  out,  to  meet  the  new  attack  that 
came  with  the  later  afternoon. 

I  went  to  Verdun  to  see  the  forts,  the  city,  the  hills 
and  the  topography  of  a  great  battle ;  I  went  in  the  hope 
of  describing  with  a  little  of  clarity  what  the  operation 
meant  as  a  military  affair.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  describe  this  thing  which  was  the  true  Verdun  for  me 
—these  men,  their  faces,  seen  as  one  heard  the  shell  fire 
and  the  musketry  rolling,  not  steadily  but  intermittently, 
the  men  who  had  marched  over  the  roads  that  are  lined 
with  graves,  through  villages  that  are  destroyed,  who  had 
come  of  their  own  will  and  in  calm  determination  and 
marched  unhurryingly  and  yet  unshrinkingly,  the  men 
who  were  no  longer  young,  who  had  left  behind  them  all 
that  men  hold  dear  in  life,  home,  wives,  children,  because 
they  knew  that  there  was  no  other  way. 

I  can  only  say  to  all  those  who  have  asked  me,  "What 
of  France?"  this  simple  thing,  that  I  do  not  believe  the 
French  will  ever  stop.  I  do  not  believe,  as  the  Germans 
have  said,  that  French  courage  is  abating.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve the  Kaiser  himself  would  think  this  if  he  had  seen 
these  men's  faces  as  they  marched  toward  his  guns.  I 
think  he  would  feel  as  I  felt,  as  one  must  feel,  that  these 
men  went  willingly,  hating  war  with  their  whole  soul, 
destitute  of  passion  or  anger.  I  never  heard  a  passionate 
word  in  France,  because  there  had  entered  into  their 
minds,  into  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  whole  race,  the  be- 
lief that  what  was  at  stake  was  the  thing  that  for  two 
thousand  years  of  history  has  been  France. 


UNDER  THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES— 

WITH  AMERICAN  ARMY  IN 

FRANCE 

Stories  of  American  Troops  on  Road  to  Front 

Told  hy  Lincoln  Eyre,  with  Pershing^ s  Army 

It  was  one  of  the  most  dramatic  scenes  in  the  world's  history 
when  on  that  twenty-seventh  day  of  June,  1917,  the  first  Ameri- 
can Army  that  ever  crossed  the  seas  to  Europe  stepped  foot  on 
the  soil  of  France  to  join  its  allies  in  the  war  to  "make  the 
world  safe  for  democracy."  America  at  last  was  repaying  the 
debt  which  it  owed  France  when  she  crossed  the  Atlantic  to 
fight  with  Washington's  Army  in  the  American  Revolution. 
The  historic  scenes  are  described  by  Lincoln  Eyre,  who  was 
attached  to  the  Joffre  commission  on  its  tour  of  triumph  in  the 
United  States.  He  is  now  with  the  American  Army  as  war 
correspondent  for  the  New  York  World,  with  whose  permission 
this  record  is  made.  Copyright,  1917,  by  Press  Publishing 
Company. 


I— STORY  OF  ARRIVAL  OF  GENERAL 
PERSHING  ON  FRENCH  SOIL 

Boulogne,  France,  June  13,  191 7. 
Cheering  thousands,  moved  to  tears,  welcomed  Gen- 
eral John  J.  Pershing  on  his  arrival  here  to-day.  The 
tall,  soldierly-appearing  figure  of  Pershing,  garbed  in 
the  business-like  khaki  of  the  American  army,  was  ac- 
claimed as  France  has  seldom  acclaimed  another  in  all  her 
history.  Frenzied  crowds  packed  the  streets  to  shout 
their  joy  and  wave  the  Tricolor  of  France  with  the  same 
three  colors  of  the  Star  Spangled  Banner.    Gen.  Persh- 

246 


Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  247 

ing  was  welcomed  at  the  dock  by  Gen.  Pelletier,  repre- 
senting the  French  Government  and  General  Headquar- 
ters ;  Commandant  Hue,  representing  the  Minister  of 
War ;  Gen.  Lucas,  commanding  the  northern  region ;  Col. 
Daru,  Governor  of  Lille ;  the  Prefect  of  the  Somme  and 
other  public  officials. 

Pershing  arrived  at  9:40  o'clock  this  morning.  He 
was  deeply  moved  by  the  greeting  he  received. 

"I  consider  this  one  of  the  most  important  moments 
in  American  history,"  he  said.  "Our  arrival  on  French 
soil,  constituting  as  we  do  the  advance  guard  of  an  Amer- 
ican army,  makes  us  realize  to  the  fullest  the  importance 
of  America's  participation.  Our  reception  has  moved 
us  deeply.  I  can  only  reaffirm  that  America  has  entered 
the  war  with  the  intention  of  performing  her  full  share 
'—however  great  or  small  the  future  will  dictate.  Our 
Allies  can  depend  upon  that  absolutely." 

A  small  French  boy  who  edged  forward  in  the  crowds 
that  greeted  the  American  general  was  noticed  by  Persh- 
ing. He  wanted  something  and  Pershing  wanted  to  know 
what  it  was.  He  came  forward  and  shyly  shook  hands 
with  the  big,  smiling  American  and  then  asked  him  to 
sign  an  autograph  album,  proudly  displaying  the  signa- 
tures which  he  had  already  obtained  in  it  from  Marshal 
Jofifre  and  Field  Marshal  Haig.  Gen.  Pershing  stopped 
right  there  and  signed  the  book. 

While  Pershing  and  the  commissioned  officers  of  his 
staff  disembarked  and  were  immediately  taken  away  in 
automobiles,  non-commissioned  officers  and  privates — or- 
derlies and  attaches  to  the  American  General's  entourage 
— swarmed  off  the  vessel  and  mixed  joyously  with  the 
crowd  at  the  railway  station.  There  were  British  Tom- 
mies there  to  welcome  their  new  brothers  in  arms — and 
French  poilus  as  well.  Hundreds  of  handshakings — and 
embraces — marked  the  meeting  of  these  representatives 


248  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

of  three  great  armies,  now  pledged  to  a  common  pur- 
pose. 

Boulogne  harbor  was  alive  early  in  the  morning  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  American  General  and  his  staff. 
The  first  notice  that  the  ship  was  finally  arriving  came 
with  the  roar  of  salutes  from  French  patrol  boats  in  the 
outer  harbor.  Then  the  British  troopships  hastily  shifted 
their  anchorage  to  allow  the  boat  with  its  all-important 
cargo  to  dock  at  the  principal  wharf.  There  a  huge 
American  flag  was  flung  to  the  breeze  from  the  topmost 
part  of  the  landing  stage,  while  on  the  dock  itself  a  bril- 
liant, colorful  assembly  awaited,  cheering  so  that  their 
welcome  must  have  been  heard  far  out  over  the  waters 
as  the  boat  slowly  nosed  her  way  between  the  whistle- 
shrieking  and  gun-barking  craft  in  between. 

On  the  dock  were  British,  French  and  Belgian  officers, 
formally  drawn  up  in  rigid  salute  as  Gen.  Pershing  first 
put  his  foot  on  French  soil  and  gave  evidence  in  the  flesh 
of  America's  determination  to  fight.  Rene  Besnard, 
Under  Secretary  of  War,  was  the  Governmental  repre- 
sentative at  this  notable  scene.  He  arrived  from  Paris 
and  shook  hands  with  the  American  commander  as  he 
stepped  ashore.  French  Government  officials  formally 
welcomed  Gen.  Pershing  and  his  staff  in  the  name  of  the 
nation  and  the  Americans  were  taken  to  a  special  train 
en  route  for  Paris. 

II~SCENES    WHEN    PERSHING    ARRIVED  IN 
PARIS 

Paris,  June  13,  1917. 
Paris,  frantic  with  enthusiasm,  streets  massed  with 
throngs  waving  the  American  and  French  flags,  greeted 
Major-Gen.  John  J.  Pershing  and  his  staff  here  at  6:30 
o'clock  this  evening.  Marshal  Joffre,  former  Premier 
Viviani,  Minister  of  War  Painleve,  American  Ambassa- 


Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  249 

dor  Sharp  and  a  score  of  other  dignitaries  greeted  the 
American  commander  and  his  officers  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord. 

"The  Hving  symbol  of  America's  help  in  the  war  for 
civilization." 

"The  man  who  will  lead  the  American  armies !" 

Such  were  the  tumultuous  salutes. 

Hundreds  of  thousands  thronged  the  sidewalks  from 
the  railway  station,  the  Gare  du  Nord,  to  the  Hotel  Cril- 
lon,  where  Gen.  Pershing  made  his  headquarters.  From 
the  moment  the  automobile,  in  which  he  rode  with  Min- 
ister of  War  Painleve  and  Gen.  Peltier,  designated  as  his 
honorary  aide,  moved  slowly  into  the  boulevard  outside 
the  railway  station,  until  he  arrived  at  his  hotel,  the  cheer- 
ing was  continuous  and,  if  possible,  increased  in  volume, 
and  the  crowds  fairly  smothered  the  Americans  with 
flowers. 

As  Gen.  Pershing  stepped  on  the  railway  platform  he 
found  awaiting  him  M.  Viviani,  Minister  Painleve,  Mar- 
shal Jofifre,  Gen.  Foch,  Gen.  Dubail,  Military  Governor 
of  Paris;  M.  Mithouard,  President  of  the  Municipal 
Council  of  Paris,  and  American  Ambassador  Sharp.  M. 
Mithouard  spoke  a  few  words  of  welcome.  A  company 
of  infantry  was  lined  up  as  a  guard  of  honor,  and  the 
Republican  Guard  Band  played  "The  Star  Spangled  Ban- 
ner.'* Gen.  Pershing  shook  hands  in  the  most  cordial 
fashion  with  M.  Viviani  and  Marshal  Joffre  and  re- 
marked, with  a  smile : 

"It  does  not  seem  long  since  we  saw  you  in  Washing- 
ton." 

Then  he  was  escorted  to  the  Painleve  automobile. 
Ahead  of  it  was  that  occupied  by  M.  Viviani  and  Ambas- 
sador Sharp,  and  behind  one  bearing  Marshal  JofJre  and 
Rene  Besnard  who  had  accompanied  Gen.  Pershing  from 
Boulogne. 


250  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

From  windows  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were  waved  by 
men,  women  and  children.  French  girls,  with  flowers 
bought  from  their  savings,  fought  for  a  chance  to  hurl 
their  offerings  into  the  laps  of  the  astonished  Americans. 
The  ride  to  the  Hotel  Crillon,  in  which  suites  for  the 
General  and  his  chief  officers  had  been  reserved,  lay 
through  many  of  the  principal  streets,  and  the  motors 
were  driven  slowly  to  afford  the  crowds  a  good  look  at 
the  Americans. 

Paris,  June  14,  1917. 

This  was  Pershing  Day  in  Paris.  The  cheers  which 
greeted  the  American  general's  entry  into  the  city  yester- 
day were  re-echoed  wherever  he  appeared  to-day.  All 
gloom  which  has  pervaded  the  city  for  months  seemed  to 
dissipate  wherever  the  tall  figure  of  the  American  ap- 
peared. 

When  the  General  appeared  on  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde this  morning  he  was  wildly  cheered  by  thousands 
who  lined  the  streets.  He  was  escorted  to  the  Palace  of 
the  Elysee  with  military  honors  and  was  presented  to 
President  Poincare,  after  which  he  was  entertained  at 
breakfast.  Other  guests  were  Premier  Ribot,  Gen.  Pain- 
leve,  Marshal  Joffre,  Minister  Viviani,  Ambassador 
Sharp  and  many  prominent  statesmen. 

In  the  afternoon  he  was  escorted  to  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies  by  Ambassador  Sharp.  The  unexpected  ap- 
pearance of  Gen.  Pershing  in  the  diplomatic  gallery 
turned  a  commonplace  meeting  of  the  Deputies  into  a 
great  ovation  for  the  American  General. 

Premier  Ribot,  who  had  been  discussing  the  Greek  situ- 
ation, recognized  Gen.  Pershing  and  switched  from  his 
speech,  saying: 

"We  are  confronted  afresh  by  beholding  the  United 
States  coming  to  the  rendezvous  of  the  representatives  of 
a  free  people." 


Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  251 

As  the  Deputies  leaped  to  their  feet  in  honor  of  the 
American  General,  the  Premier  continued : 

"The  people  of  Paris  are  so  sure  of  themselves  that  in 
their  acclamation  of  Gen.  Pershing  they  are  writing  the 
first  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  constitution  of  a  so- 
ciety of  nations." 

The  Chamber  turned  with  one  accord  to  where  Gen. 
Pershing  stood.  He  bowed  his  acknowledgments  of  the 
Parliamentary  greeting.  Following  Premier  Ribot,  For- 
eign Minister  Viviani  said  that  "neither  pen  nor  note 
could  do  justice  to  the  reception  which  he  and  Gen.  Joffre 
were  accorded  in  the  United  States." 

M.  Viviani  referred  to  President  Wilson  as  "that  great, 
calm  figure  in  whose  untrembling  hands  there  rests,  with 
Washington  and  Lincoln,  all  the  grandeur  of  American, 
history." 

A  tremendous  outburst  of  applause  filled  the  audi- 
torium when  M.  Viviani  told  of  how  at  Chicago,  once 
the  center  of  pro-Germanism,  he  had  been  promised  that: 
the  last  American  and  the  last  American  dollar  would  be 
given  by  the  United  States  that  France  might  restore  Al- 
sace-Lorraine. 

This  morning  Gen.  Pershing  stood  with  uncovered  head 
at  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  and  paid  tribute  to  one  of  the 
world's  greatest  commanders.  With  his  staff  he  was  re- 
ceived at  the  Hotel  des  Invalides  by  Gen.  Niox,  the  com- 
mander, and  Gen.  Malterre.  As  the  American  party  en- 
tered the  spacious  grounds  leading  to  the  building  they 
encountered  a  number  of  veterans.  A  grizzled  soldier  of 
the  Crimea  saluted.  Gen.  Pershing  stopped  and  extended 
his  hand,  saying: 

"It  is  a  great  honor  for  a  young  soldier  like  myself  to 
press  the  hand  of  an  old  soldier  like  yourself  who  has 
seen  such  glorious  sirvice." 

Gen,  Niox  conducted  the  A.merican  commander  within^ 


252  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

the  vast  rotunda,  with  its  walls  hung  with  battle  flags, 
and  thence  the  party  proceeded  below  to  the  crypt  where 
the  sarcophagus  of  Napoleon  reposes.  Entrance  to  the 
crypt  is  rigorously  limited,  and  it  is  seldom  that  any  one 
is  admitted  except  crowned  heads  or  a  former  ruler,  as 
in  the  case  of  ex-President  Roosevelt  when  he  visited 
Paris. 

Gen.  Pershing  was  then  conducted  to  the  Artillery 
Museum,  where  precious  relics  of  Napoleon  are  pre- 
served. He  was  particularly  interested  in  Napoleon's 
sword  and  Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  An 
hour  was  spent  in  the  building. 

To-night  Gen.  Painleve  gave  a  dinner  in  honor  of 
Gen.  Pershing.  Among  the  guests  were  famous  French 
soldiers,  Allied  diplomats,  residents  in  Paris,  and  French 
statesmen. 

HI— STORY  OF  ARRIVAL  OF  FIRST  AMER- 
ICAN  TROOPS    IN    FRANCE 

Paris,  July  i,  1917. 

Paris  was  overwhelmed  with  joy  this  morning  at  the 
first  published  announcements  that  all  of  the  first  con- 
tingent of  United  States  troops  had  landed  safely  in 
France.  It  was  not  long,  either,  until  the  city  got  a  sight 
of  American  sailors,  marines  and  even  a  few  regulars — 
soldiers  assigned  to  duty  with  various  officers  who  have 
come  immediately  to  Paris  from  the  port  of  landing. 

Already  the  French  are  stirred  to  exultation  and  a 
realization  of  the  victory  which  they  feel  sure  to  come, 
now  that  America  has  its  fighting  men  so  near  the  front. 
'The  fraternization  of  the  Americans  with  the  English, 
Canadians,  Australians  and  French  is  remarkable,  and 
the  new  arrivals  are  being  received  everywhere  with  open 
^rms  and  open  hearts.    Last  month  nearly  all  the  British 


Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  253 

troops  not  having  near  relatives  in  the  British  Isles  have 
been  coming  to  Paris  on  leave,  and  so  the  newly  landed 
Americans  find  plenty  of  comrades  able  to  speak  their 
common  language. 

The  Yankees  warmed  up  particularly  to  the  Canadians, 
among  whom  are  many  Americans,  but  the  greatest  sur- 
prise came  at  the  way  the  French  officers  and  poilus  fra- 
ternize with  their  new  allies.  The  appearance  of  Ameri- 
can naval  officers  in  white  duck  summer  uniforms  in  the 
smart  Paris  restaurants  causes  gasps  of  astonished  de- 
light. 

The  French  press  has  extended  an  enthusiastic  greet- 
ing to  the  American  troops.  The  Temps  dwells  upon 
their  youth,  vigor,  and  military  aspect,  and  the  complete- 
ness of  their  equipment. 

The  Journal  des  Debats  says :  "The  grand  democracy 
of  the  New  World  does  nothing  by  halves.  It  entered 
this  vast  conflict  in  full  consciousness  of  the  ends  to  be 
attained  and  with  full  resolution  to  neglect  nothing  in 
attaining  those  ends.  What  we  witness  to-day  in  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Americans  on  French  soil  is  magnificent  proof 
of  this  fact.  Two  months  and  a  half  after  the  Americans 
entered  the  war  their  hardy  troops  arrive  in  solid  lines 
upon  the  European  front,  and  it  is  not  a  modest  advance 
guard.  On  the  contrary,  the  forces  which  have  just 
landed  on  our  shore  surpass  anything  which  could  reason- 
ably have  been  expected  within  so  short  a  time.  When 
we  recall  the  length  of  time  it  took  England  to  move  her 
forces  to  South  Africa,  and,  similarly,  the  length  of  time 
it  took  us  to  move  our  troops  to  Salonica  this  remarkable 
accomplishment  by  the  Americans  is  seen  in  its  full  sig- 
nificance. The  material  they  bring  is  on  the  same  abund- 
ant scale  as  their  troops.  Those  who  have  been  doubt- 
ful whether  the  American  concourse  would  come  in  time 
have  failed  to  estimate  at  its  just  value  the  tremendous 


254  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

moral  and  material  American  power  that  German  brutal- 
ity has  mobilized  against  itself.  And  what  we  see  to-day 
is  only  the  commencement.  Each  day  henceforth  will 
increase  the  weight  of  that  formidable  sword  thrown  into 
the  balance  by  the  great  Republic  of  America.  Who  can, 
even  in  Germany,  be  blind  to  the  inevitable  consequences 
of  the  events  we  are  now  witnessing?" 

IV— AMERICAN  SOLDIERS  CELEBRATE 
FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  PARIS 

Paris,  July  4,  1917. 

All  France  celebrated  the  Fourth  of  July.  Paris 
turned  out  a  crowd  that  no  American  city  ever  surpassed 
for  size,  enthusiasm  and  profusion  of  Stars  and  Stripes. 
A  battalion  of  the  first  American  expeditionary  force 
about  to  leave  for  training  behind  the  battle  front  had  its 
first  official  review  in  France  and  was  the  centre  of  the 
celebration.  Everywhere  the  American  flag  was  flying 
from  public  buildings,  hotels  and  residences  and  from 
automobiles,  cabs  and  carts,  horses'  bridles — even  the 
lapels  of  pedestrians'  coats  displayed  it. 

The  crowds  began  early  to  gather  at  vantage  points. 
Rue  de  Varenne  was  choked  long  before  8  o'clock  this 
morning,  when  the  Republican  Guards  Band  carried  out 
a  field  reveille  under  Gen.  Pershing's  windows.  All 
routes  toward  the  Hotel  des  Invalides  were  thronged 
even  before  Pershing's  men  turned  out.  About  the  Court 
of  Honor  where  the  Americans  were  drawn  up  with  a 
detachment  of  French  Territorials,  the  buildings  over- 
flowed with  crowded  humanity  to  the  roofs.  All  around 
the  khaki-clad  men  from  the  United  States  were  trophies 
and  souvenirs  of  war — German  cannon,  airplanes,  ma- 
chine guns  and  many  appliances  for  burning  suffocating 
gas.    Behind  them  in  the  chapel  separating  the  Court  of 


Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  255 

Honor  from  Napoleon's  tomb  were  German  battle  flags, 
trophies  of  the  Marne  and  Alsace,  beside  Prussian  ban- 
ners of  1870. 

In  the  chapel  before  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  Gen.  Persh- 
ing received  American  flags  and  banners  from  the  hands 
of  President  Poincare.  Almost  the  entire  history  of  the 
struggles  of  the  French  against  the  Germans  looked  down 
upon  the  scene  from  paintings  portraying  heroic  incidents 
in  French  battles  from  Charlemagne  to  Napoleon.  There 
was  a  sharp  contrast  between  the  khaki  and  plain  wide 
brimmed  hats  of  Pershing's  men  and  the  gay  dress  of 
d'Artagnan's  plumed  musketeers  and  Napoleon's  grena- 
diers. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  vast  crowd  reached  its  highest 
pitch  when  Gen.  Pershing,  escorted  by  President  Poin- 
care, Marshal  Joffre  and  other  high  French  dignitaries, 
passed  along  reviewing  the  lines  of  the  Americans  drawn 
up  in  square  formations.  Cheering  broke  out  anew 
when  the  American  band  struck  up  "The  Marseillaise," 
and  again  when  the  French  band  played  "The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner"  and  Pershing  received  the  flags  from 
the  President. 

"Vive  les  Americains !"  "Vive  Pershing !"  "Vive 
les  Etats-Unis !"  shouted  over  and  over  by  the  crowd 
greeted  the  American  standard  bearers  as  they  advanced. 

The  crowd  that  had  waited  three  hours  to  witness  the 
ceremony  that  was  over  in  fifteen  minutes,  surged  toward 
the  exit  cheering  frantically  after  the  departing  Ameri- 
cans and  trying  to  break  through  a  cordon  of  police 
troops.  Outside  a  greater  crowd  that  covered  the  entire 
Esplanade  des  Invalides  took  up  the  cheers  as  Pershing's 
men  marched  away.  The  crowd  in  the  Court  of  Honor 
tried  to  follow  the  soldiers,  but  the  throng  outside  was 
so  dense,  and  the  exits  so  small  that  it  was  half  an  hour 
before  the  people  could  get  out.    The  Cours  de  la  Reine 


256  Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

from  Alexander  Bridge  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  was 
black  with  people  all  of  whom  seemed  to  want  to  rush 
up  to  the  men  and  embrace  them  as  they  marched  by. 
When  the  last  man  had  passed  great  crowds  surged  from 
both  sides  to  the  middle  of  the  street,  breaking  through 
the  police  military  guards  and  blocking  traffic  for  a 
long  time  behind  the  marching  column. 

More  people  were  massed  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens 
than  on  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides.  Few  of  them  could 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  parade  but  all  joined  in  a  tremendous 
outburst  of  cheering  when  music  from  the  Republican 
Guard  Band  announced  the  approach  of  the  troops,  and 
the  cheering  did  not  diminish  in  volume  until  the  last 
man  in  the  line  had  disappeared  from  view  of  the  Gardens 
down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 


WITH  THE  SERBIAN  STOICS  IN 
EXILE— UNDER  THE  GERMAN  YOKE 

Experiences  in  the  Flight  to  Albania 

Told  hy  Gordon  Gordon-Smithy  with  the  Serbian  Army 

Gordon-Smith  was  with  the  armies  of  King  Peter  in  the  flight 
into  Albania.  He  stood  beside  the  forlorn  king  as  he  fled  with 
his  people  before  the  German-Austrian-Bulgarian  hordes.  His 
accounts  of  the  hardships  and  heroism  of  the  Serbs  is  the  first 
to  reach  the  world.  He  tells  about  the  tragic  exodus  through 
the  mountain  passes — men,  women  and  children;  the  babes  and 
the  feeble  on  the  procession  of  bullock  carts ;  the  wolves  howl- 
ing through  the  night  and  gnawing  at  the  bodies  of  the  dead 
along  the  road.  A  few  of  these  stories  are  told  here  by  per- 
mission of  the  New  York  Tribune,  for  whom  he  acted  as  special 
correspondent  in  the   Balkans. 

I— HOW  I  FLED  WITH  KING  PETER'S  TROOPS 

The  headquarters  of  the  Serbian  Army  left  Knise- 
vatz  for  Rashka,  as  the  German  advance  menaced  its  re- 
treat from  the  former  town  if  longer  delayed.  With 
my  colleague  of  the  Petit  Parisien  I  determined  to  push 
forward  to  join  the  Second  Army,  which  was  opposing 
the  enemy's  advance  in  the  valley  of  the  Morava. 

The  roads  were  in  a  frightful  condition.  They  were, 
for  the  most  part,  mere  cart  tracks  and  perfect  seas  of 
mud.  The  carriage  half  the  time  was  ploughing  through 
two  feet  of  tenacious  clay.  Twice  it  stuck  fast  up  to  the 
axles  in  mud,  and  was  only  extricated  with  the  friendly 
aid  of  a  passing  bullock  team.  Good  horses  are  no  longer 
to  be  had  in  Serbia ;  they  have  all  been  requisitioned  for 
the  army. 

257 


258  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

One  of  our  horses,  a  giraffe-like  chestnut,  is  an  ex- 
cavalry  horse  of  the  Austrian  army  and  bears  the  mark 
of  a  wound  from  a  shell  splinter.  It  is  named  Julius. 
Its  partner  (which  I  have  named  Caesar)  is  a  flea-bitten 
gray,  somewhat  short  in  the  wind.  Both  regard  Serbian 
mud  and  the  effort  it  entails  on  them  with  profound 
disapproval. 

Just  at  the  point  where  the  road  from  Krusevatz  joins 
the  main  road  running  to  Stalatz  I  came  across  half  a 
dozen  British  soldiers  belonging  to  the  heavy  battery 
which  defended  Belgrade.  They  were  seated  at  the  road- 
side preparing  the  inevitable  pot  of  tea  without  which 
Tommy  Atkins's  happiness  is  not  complete. 

They  told  me  their  battery  was  en  route  for  Nish  and 
that  the  guns  had  already  been  entrained  at  Stalatz.  They 
were  covering  the  intervening  sixty  kilometres  in  a  couple 
of  bullock  carts.  They  were  profoundly  ignorant  of  what 
was  happening  in  Serbia  or  the  outside  world,  but  were 
correspondingly  cheerful. 

They  insisted  on  us  sharing  their  tea,  and  produced 
a  pot  of  the  equally  inevitable  marmalade,  which  they 
proudly  declared  was  one  of  the  few  objects  which  had 
survived  the  bombardment  of  Belgrade.  I  left  them 
loading  up  their  wagon  and  giving  orders  to  their  drivers 
in  weird  but  apparently  effective  Serbian. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  Chichivatz,  the  first  stage 
on  our  journey.  The  problem  was  to  find  quarters  and 
food.  Every  village  behind  the  front  is  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  the  fugitive  population  from  the  country 
held  by  the  Germans.  Every  public  edifice  is  crammed; 
people  sleep  on  straw,  twenty  in  a  room,  in  every  avail- 
able house.  At  the  village  inn  the  food  supply  resolved 
itself  into  the  inevitable  "Schnitzel,"  which  in  the  present 
instance  was  a  badly  burnt  piece  of  pork.  We  were, 
however,  fortunate  enough  to  find  the  local  stationmaster 


IVith  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  259 

at  the  inn,  who  hospitably  offered  us  a  bedroom  in  the 
railway  station. 

When  we  got  there  we  noticed  that  he  had  already  be- 
gun to  pack  up  ready  to  leave.  With  him  was  a  young 
official  of  the  Ministry  of  Commerce,  who  had  been  sent 
to  destroy  the  stores  and  rolling  stock.  .  .  . 

As  fast  as  the  Germans  advance  in  the  north  and  the 
Bulgarians  in  the  south  the  locomotives  and  rolling  stock 
are  accumulated  on  the  only  section  of  the  line  now  in 
Serbian  hands ;  that  is  the  80  kilometres  between  Chichi- 
vatz  and  Nish. 

When  everything  is  lost  on  this  section  the  Serbian 
authorities  fill  the  whole  track  with  rolling  stock  from 
one  end  to  the  other  and  blow  up  all  the  bridges,  so  as  to 
render  the  line  unworkable.  The  new  American  engines, 
which  were  only  delivered  this  year,  have  been  placed 
in  a  long  tunnel  on  a  side  line,  and  each  end  of  the 
tunnel  blown  up,  so  as  to  entomb  them  undamaged.  .  .  . 

Seven  Serbian  divisions  opposing  eighteen  German 
divisions  were  odds  that  not  even  the  bravery  of  King 
Peter's  army  could  withstand.  Train  after  train  rolled 
through  the  station  loaded  with  military  stores  and 
packed  with  fleeing  peasants. 

II—"WE  SADDLED  OUR  HORSES  TO  RIDE  TO 
THE  FRONT" 

Next  morning  the  station  master  roused  me  at  7:30 
o'clock  with  the  words,  "The  Germans  are  coming!" 
From  his  tone  one  could  have  supposed  the  cavalry  were 
at  the  outskirts. 

The  real  reason,  I  soon  discovered,  was  his  desire  that 
I  should  evacuate  my  sleeping  quarters,  as  an  ox  wagon 
was  already  at  the  door  to  transport  the  furniture  to  a 
place  of  safety. 


26o  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

We  determined  to  leave  the  carriage  to  ride  to  the 
front,  as  a  carriage,  in  a  sudden  retreat,  is  apt  to  be 
cumbersome.  We  accordingly  saddled  the  horses  and 
rode  to  Parachine,  twenty  kilometers  distant. 

Parachine  we  found  in  a  state  of  considerable  excite- 
ment. The  thunder  of  the  guns  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  gave  evidence  of  the  approach  of  the  enemy.  The 
battle  was  raging  about  four  miles  outside  the  town. 
The  Second  Army  held  the  heights  on  both  sides  of  the 
valley,  opposed  to  a  force  of  nearly  double  its 
strength.  .  .  . 

As  the  staff  of  the  Second  Army  was  expected  to  ar- 
rive in  the  town  that  evening  we  determined  to  remain 
over  night  at  Parachine.  With  thirty  thousand  refugees 
in  a  town  of  twelve  thousand  inhabitants  it  was  no  easy 
matter  to  find  a  room,  but  the  Mayor  kindly  had  a  de- 
serted house  broken  open  for  us,  and  also,  which  was 
even  more  important,  found  food  and  stabling  for  our 
horses.  Next  morning  the  people  of  the  next-door  house 
awakened  us  with  the  news  that  the  Germans  were  at- 
tacking the  town,  and  that  infantry  fire  was  clearly  audi- 
ble. 

When  we  got  out  we  found  the  Serbian  baggage  train 
pouring  through  the  town — a  clear  sign  that  the  retreat 
had  begun.  The  town  was  in  wild  excitement  for  two 
reasons — firstly,  on  account  of  the  approach  of  the  Ger- 
mans, and,  secondly,  because  orders  had  been  given  to 
distribute  to  the  inhabitants  everything  in  the  military 
stores  to  prevent  them  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
As  a  result  I  saw  hundreds  of  people  going  about  car- 
rying a  dozen  pairs  of  boots,  uniforms,  under-clothing, 
bread,  biscuits,  etc. 

At  midday  the  provision  and  munition  columns,  hav- 
ing safely  cleared  the  town.  General  Stephanovitch  and 
his  staff,  after  placing  a  strong  rear  guard  to  delay  the 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  261 

German  advance  as  long  as  possible,  left  for  Raj  an,  a 
town  about  twenty  miles  distant. 

The  wildest  reports  were  current.  But  it  is  no  use 
arguing  with  panic-stricken  people.  In  spite  of  my  as- 
surances, they  went  on  loading  carts  and  wagons  in  fever- 
ish haste  and,  in  spite  of  the  pouring  rain,  went  off  in  the 
darkness.  The  curious  thing  is  that  not  one  in  ten  knew 
where  they  were  going.  The  Germans  were  coming  from 
the  north,  therefore  they  fled  south. 

Ill— "I  MET  HUNDREDS  OF  THOUSANDS  OF 
REFUGEES" 

For  a  month  past  I  have  met  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  such  refugees,  who  wander  on  aimlessly  from  town 
to  town,  driving  flocks  and  herds  before  them,  always 
trying  to  keep  a  couple  of  days  march  in  advance  of  the 
invader. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  they  add  enormously  to  the 
difficulties  of  the  military  situation.  They  block  the 
roads  and  overcrowd  towns  and  villages.  When  their 
food  supplies  run  down  they  are  face  to  face  with  star- 
vation. And  when  one  remembers  that  a  similar  exodus 
is  going  on  from  the  south  before  the  Bulgarian  invader 
the  horror  of  the  situation  may  be  imagined.  .  .  . 

The  whole  of  Old  Serbia,  the  Serbia  of  King  Milan, 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  while  the  Bulgarians  are 
masters  of  nearly  the  whole  of  Serbian  Macedonia. 

I  had  hardly  been  asleep  half  an  hour  when  I  was 
aroused  by  a  tremendous  explosion,  followed  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  by  a  succession  of  minor  explosions. 
These  were  caused  by  the  blowing  up  of  the  ammunition 
wagons.  The  crimson  glare  announced  that  the  scores 
of  cars  on  the  railway  siding  were  ablaze. 


262  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

At  the  same  time  an  engine  just  opposite  my  windows 
began  whistling  stridently.  Downstairs  in  the  courtyard 
I  found  the  whole  population,  male  and  female,  old  and 
young,  busy  looting  the  carriages  and  trucks  not  yet  a 
prey  to  the  flames. 

Half  a  dozen  wagons  filled  with  boots  for  the  Ru- 
manian army,  which  had  been  lying  in  the  siding  for 
three  months,  were  being  plundered.  Two  other  wagons 
filled  with  50,000  francs'  worth  of  cigarette  papers, 
wagons  filled  with  Serbian  wine,  French  champagne,  liq- 
ueurs and  perfumery,  were  also  given  over  to  plunder. 
Thousands  of  bags  of  flour,  boxes  of  biscuits,  tinned 
meats  and  sardines  covered  the  ground  on  all  sides,  while 
the  inhabitants  of  the  village  were  loading  carts  and 
handbarrows. 

These  people  were  not  worrying  much  about  the  ap- 
proach of  the  Germans.  As  they  had  determined  to  be 
taken  prisoners,  they  regarded  the  advance  of  the  in- 
vaders philosophically. 

My  chief  worry  was  Varvarian,  which  I  could  see  only 
four  miles  away.  It  had  been  occupied  at  dawn  by  the 
German  cavalry,  and,  of  course,  they  might  risk  a  sud- 
den dash  for  Chichivatz,  and  perhaps  even  Salatz,  down 
the  line. 

We  therefore  determined  to  return  at  once  for  Kruse- 
vatz.  The  press  of  vehicles  on  the  road  was  so  great 
that  we  saw  we  could  proceed  quicker  on  foot,  so  we 
left  the  carriage  to  follow  and  started  to  cover  the  inter- 
vening twenty  kilometres. 

When  we  reached  Krusevatz,  late  in  the  afternoon,  we 
found  the  town  apparently  in  high  festival.  Every- 
body seemed  in  the  best  of  humor  and  gaiety  reigned 
everywhere. 

We  soon  discovered  the  cause.  The  whole  town,  men, 
women  and  children,  had  been  drinking  unlimited  quan- 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  263 

titles  of  French  champagne,  a  trainful  of  which  was  lying 
in  the  station.  When  the  capture  of  the  town  was  seen 
to  be  inevitable  orders  were  given  there,  as  elsewhere, 
to  let  the  population  plunder  everything  in  sight,  and  the 
order  had  been  faithfully  obeyed. 

I  doubt,  however,  if  this  had  the  effect  of  preventing 
the  goods  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans.  The 
latter  would  not  be  long  in  hearing  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. They  would  simply  post  up  a  notice  to  the  in- 
habitants telling  them  to  bring  back  all  the  plunder  to 
the  "Kommandatur,"  twelve  bullets  being  provided  for 
any  one  who  should  fail  to  do  so.  This,  plus  the  threat 
of  a  house-to-house  search  to  discover  those  who  had 
failed  to  obey,  would  probably  rake  in  nine-tenths  of  the 
goods. 

The  great  retreat  of  the  Serbian  army  across  the  moun- 
tains had  now  begun.  With  their  300,000  bayonets,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Teutons  were,  as  far  as  phy- 
sique went,  the  most  miserable  material  it  was  ever  my 
lot  to  see,  they  continually  outflanked  the  150,000  men 
the  Serbians  were  able  to  oppose  to  them. 

The  Serbian  armies,  except  the  division  which  was 
opposing  the  Bulgarians  in  the  south,  were  forced  back 
on  the  mountain  range,  which  at  this  point  runs  trans- 
versely across  Serbia,  and  behind  which  lies  the  old 
Turkish  province,  the  Sandpak  of  Novi  Bazar,  and  the 
Plain  of  Kossovo. 

The  operation  of  conducting  the  retreat  of  the  Ser- 
bian armies  through  the  mountain  passes  was  like  fil- 
tering a  fifty-gallon  cask  through  the  neck  of  a  pint 
bottle.  The  transport  of  20,000  ox-drawn  army  service 
wagons,  whose  best  gait  is  about  two  miles  an  hour, 
alone  constituted  a  formidable  problem. 

In  view  of  the  terrible  nature  of  the  roads,  we  had  to 


264  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

add  a  third  horse  to  the  team  of  our  carriage.  A  mile 
from  the  town  we  found  ourselves  in  a  mass  of  wagons, 
which  every  instant  became  more  congested.  The  pass- 
age of  tens  of  thousands  of  guns  and  wagons  had 
churned  the  roads  into  a  huge  quagmire. 

IV-"I  WATCHED  THE  TERRIFYING 
SPECTACLE" 

As  darkness  fell  the  scene  became  a  sinister  one.  To 
the  left,  behind  the  railway  station,  one  building  after 
another  burst  into  flame;  the  employees  were  firing  the 
storehouses  and  blowing  up  the  wagons  on  the  siding. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  whole  town  was  shaken  by  a 
series  of  explosions.  The  accumulated  stocks  in  the 
Obelitchavo  powder  magazine  were  being  blown  up. 

From  the  eminence  on  which  I  stood  the  spectacle  was 
terrifying.  Krusevatz  was  blazing  at  half  a  dozen  points, 
the  whole  sky  was  covered  with  a  crimson  glare,  while 
below  us  the  river,  like  red  blood  in  the  flames,  could 
be  followed  to  the  horizon,  where  the  flashes  of  Serb 
guns  delaying  the  German  advance  could  be  seen. 

On  the  line  of  retreat  confusion  was  becoming  worse. 
The  whole  road  was  filled  with  a  triple  line  of  bullock 
wagons,  their  panting  teams  straining  to  tear  them 
through  the  tenacious  mud. 

Suddenly  there  came  an  explosion  like  an  earthquake. 
An  immense  column  of  yellow  flame  shot  heavenward. 
The  heavy  girder  bridge  over  the  river  had  been  dyna- 
mited. At  the  same  instant  three  immense  German  shells 
came  screaming  overhead  and  burst  with  tremendous 
explosions,  one  near  the  town  hall  and  two  near  the  rail- 
way station.  These  nerve-shaking  explosions  caused  a 
wild  panic,  the  first  I  had  seen  in  Siberia.  The  terrified 
oxen  broke  into  a  run  and  poured  in  a  surging  mass, 
with  my  carriage  in  their  midst,  down  the  road. 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  265 

Suddenly  they  came  on  a  narrow  bridge  spanning  a 
small  ravine.  Those  on  the  outside  were  forced  against 
the  parapet.  I  saw  the  carriage  balance  for  an  instant 
and  then  with  the  three  horses  roll  into  the  ditch  thirty 
feet  below.  There  was  a  sound  of  smashing  glass,  and 
it  was  all  over  with  our  vehicle. 

The  only  thing  was  to  extricate  the  kicking  horses 
and  salve  such  baggage  as  had  escaped.  This  was  a  long 
and  difficult  process  in  torrents  of  rain,  but  after  an 
hour  and  a  half  of  hard  work  we  finally  got  our  be- 
longings ranged  alongside  the  road. 

The  next  difficulty  was  a  means  of  transport,  but  an 
obliging  non-commissioned  offxer  to  the  Reserve  Mu- 
nition Column  of  the  Timok  Division  stopped  a  half- 
empty  ox  wagon  and  our  belongings  were  hoisted  in. 
We  in  turn  found  shelter  under  the  tilt  of  another  wagon 
and  made  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  the  munition  boxes 
would  allow. 

The  German  infantry  was  of  miserable  quality,  men 
who  a  year  ago  would  never  have  passed  the  doctor, 
they  burst  their  way  through  by  shell  and  shrapnel  fire. 

It  was  during  these  attacks  that  they  took  hundreds  of 
prisoners,  all  of  them,  as  I  have  said,  of  miserable  phy- 
sique. I  saw  a  youth  in  the  streets  of  Krusevatz,  who 
could  not  have  been  more  than  sixteen  or  seventeen  years 
old.  His  "pickelhauben,"  much  too  large  for  him,  came 
down  over  his  ears.  Another  I  saw  was  minus  a  finger 
on  his  left  hand,  and  a  French  surgeon  told  me  he  had 
a  German  patient  who  was  deaf  and  dumb.  All  were 
pale-faced,  narrow-chested,  and  not  the  class  of  men  one 
saw  twelve  months  ago. 

Then  came  the  blizzards  of  snow  and  inundations  which 
blotted  out  the  road  in  districts  hundreds  of  kilometers 


266  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

in  extent.  Add  to  this  fact,  all  communication  with  the 
outside  world  was  completely  cut  off,  there  were  no  let- 
ters, telegrams  or  newspapers,  and  such  vague  reports  as 
filtered  in  were  brought  by  circuitous  routes  over  hun- 
dreds of  kilometers  of  the  worst  roads  in  Europe. 

With  every  trump  card  in  the  hands  of  her  enemies, 
Serbia's  fate  was  sealed.  All  she  could  do  was  to  fight 
to  the  last,  and  this  she  did. 

V— EVERY  ROAD  WAS  FILLED  WITH  HUMAN 
MISERY 

Every  road  in  Serbia  was  filled  with  the  flowing  tide 
of  human  misery.  Every  town  and  village  was  over- 
crowded. In  Kroljevo  in  ordinary  times  there  are  15,000. 
When  I  reached  the  town  it  contained  120,000.  The  same 
held  good  of  every  other  center. 

The  government  issued  a  decree  ordering  all  the  male 
population  above  fourteen  to  leave  the  invaded  districts 
before  the  arrival  of  the  enemy.  This  added  nearly  a 
million  to  the  number  of  people  the  government  had  to 
support,  and  under  the  strain  the  civil  administration 
broke  down  completely.  Soon  the  old  Serbia  of  King 
Milas  was  completely  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  while 
the  Bulgarians  drove  out  the  population  of  Serbian  Mace- 
donia. 

As  a  consequence  the  only  refuge  left  was  Novi  Bazar. 
Into  this  narrow  space  poured  an  endless  tide  of  refugees. 
Gaunt,  hollow-eyed  men,  women  and  children  dragged 
themselves  wearily  for  hundreds  of  kilometers,  bound 
they  knew  not  whither.  Always  behind  them  they  heard 
the  inexorable  thunder  of  the  guns,  warning  them  to 
press  on  and  on.  Thousands  fell  by  the  wayside,  suc- 
cumbing to  cold  and  hT,inpfer. 

Probably  not  since  the  crossing  of  the  Alps  by  Na- 
poleon has  such  a  military  expedition  been  undertaken 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  267 

as  the  traversing  of  the  Albanian  Mountains  by  the  head- 
quarters staff  and  the  remains  of  the  Serbian  army. 

The  sight  presented  by  Lium  Koula  on  the  eve  of  de- 
parture was  unique.  On  the  mountain  side  for  miles 
nothing  could  be  seen  but  endless  fires.  They  were  made 
by  thousands  of  ox  wagons,  unable  to  go  further,  as  the 
road  for  vehicles  ceases  there.  Fortunately  the  snow- 
storm ended  and  was  followed  by  brilliant  sunshine. 

Next  day  at  9  o'clock  the  headquarters  staff  set  out. 
It  included  300  persons  and  400  pack  animals.  The  road 
wound  along  the  banks  of  the  Drin,  which  had  to  be 
crossed  twice  by  means  of  picturesque  old  single-span 
Turkish  bridges,  since  destroyed  to  impede  the  Bul- 
garian advance. 

The  first  mistake  was  that  of  transporting  the  sedan 
chair  of  Field  Marshal  Putnik  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession. Every  time  it  halted  to  change  bearers,  which 
was  every  fifteen  minutes,  the  whole  two-mile-long  pro- 
cession, following  in  single  file,  had  to  stop  also.  As 
a  result,  instead  of  reaching  Spas  before  sundown,  we 
only  reached  the  base  of  the  mountain  after  darkness 
had  fallen. 

Here  a  long  council  was  held  as  to  whether  we  should 
bivouac  in  the  village  below  or  undertake  the  mountain 
climb  in  the  dark.  The  latter  course  was  decided  upon. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  adventures  ever 
undertaken.  A  narrow  path,  about  four  feet  across,  cov- 
ered with  ice  and  snow,  winds  corkscrew  fashion  up  the 
face  of  the  cliff.  On  one  hand  is  a  rocky  wall  and  on 
the  other  a  sheer  drop  into  the  Drin. 

VI—OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN   SIDE  WITH 
GENERAL  PUTNIK 

This  road  winds  and  twists  in  all  sorts  of  angles,  and 
it  was  up  this  that  we  started  in  the  black  darkness,  with 


268  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

the  sedan  chair  of  General  Putnik  still  heading  the  pro- 
cession. Every  time  it  reached  a  corner  it  was  a  matter 
of  endless  difficulty  to  manoeuver  it  around. 

On  one  occasion  we  stood  for  thirty-five  minutes  in 
an  icy  wind  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  Drin,  invisible  in 
the  black  gulf  500  feet  below.  Horses  slipped  and  fell 
at  every  instant,  and  every  now  and  then  one  would  go 
crashing  into  the  gulf  below. 

It  was  10  o'clock  when,  tired,  hungry  and  half  frozen, 
we  reached  bivouac  at  Spas.  Here  we  found  that  though 
dinner  had  been  ready  since  3  o'clock  it  could  not  be 
served  because  all  the  plates  and  spoons  were  on  the  pack 
animals,  which  remained  in  the  village  below.  Neither 
had  the  tents  arrived,  and  as  Spas  contains  only  five  or 
six  peasant  houses  accommodation  was  at  a  premium. 
Colonel  Mitrovitz,  head  of  the  mess,  told  me  I  would 
find  room  in  a  farmhouse  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 

The  house  really  was  two  hours  distant,  over  fields 
deep  in  snow.  When  I  got  there  at  midnight  I  discovered 
that  there  were  already  nearly  a  score  of  occupants ;  but 
at  least  I  was  able  to  sleep  in  some  straw  near  the  fire- 
side, instead  of  in  the  snow  outside. 

Next  morning  I  set  out  at  6  to  get  ahead  of  the  main 
body  of  the  headquarters  staflF.  The  day  was  magnificent 
and  we  slowly  climbed  foot  by  foot  to  the  cloud-capped 
summits  of  the  mountains.  Up  and  up  we  went,  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  feet. 

Every  few  hundred  yards  we  came  on  bodies  of  men 
frozen  or  starved  to  death.  At  one  point  there  were 
four  in  a  heap.  They  were  convicts  from  Prisrend  peni- 
tentiary, who  had  been  sent  in  chains  across  the  moun- 
tains. They  had  been  shot  either  for  insubordination  or 
because  they  were  unable  to  proceed.  Two  other  nearly 
naked  bodies  were  evidently  those  of  Serbian  soldiers 
murdered  by  Albanians. 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  269 

VII~"I  OVERTOOK  KING  PETER" 

Soon  after  midday  I  overtook  King  Peter  and  his 
staff.  Despite  his  seventy-six  years,  he  marched  on  foot 
with  vigor  younger  men  might  have  envied. 

During  all  the  four  hours  I  marched  with  the  royal 
staff  he  never  once  mounted  his  horse,  which  a  soldier 
was  leading  behind  him.  When  we  stopped  for  the  night 
at  Bredeti  King  Peter  had  a  ten  hours'  march  to  his 
credit. 

It  was  at  this  point  I  came  across  the  first  of  Essad 
Pacha's  gendarmes.  They  had  been  sent  out  by  that 
heavy-handed  ruler  to  protect  the  King  and  his  staff. 
They  were  a  picturesque  lot,  many  of  them  barefooted, 
but  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  first  class  quality  of 
their  rifles  and  revolvers.  They  wore  the  Serbian  gen- 
darme's uniform— that  is,  they  wore  any  uniform — of 
which  the  Nish  government  had  some  months  before 
made  them  a  present  of  several  thousand. 

The  attitude  of  the  population  could  not  be  described 
as  friendly  to  the  Serbians,  but  at  the  same  time  there 
were  no  outward  signs  of  hostility.  They  rarely  saluted 
and  showed  no  desire  whatever  to  offer  hospitality.  In 
the  case  of  the  royal  household  and  headquarters  staff 
Essad  Pacha  had  requisitioned  accommodations,  but  any 
one  not  belonging  to  one  of  these  units  had  every  chance 
of  faring  badly.  All  they  had  to  depend  on  were  way- 
side caravanserai. 

These  huge,  barnlike  structures  consist  of  nothing  but 
four  walls  and  a  roof,  the  latter  generally  doubtfully 
water-tight.  Here  men  and  horses  were  all  quartered 
pell-mell.  Everybody  annexes  as  much  space  as  he  can 
get  and  lights  a  fire  for  warmth  and  cooking.  As  they 
have  no  chimneys,  the  smoke  is  left  to  find  its  way  out 


270  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

through  the  open  doors  or  the  thatched  roof.  The  state 
of  the  atmosphere  may  be  imagined. 

As  my  colleague,  Paul  Dubochet,  of  the  "Petit  Paris- 
ien,"  and  I  had  pushed  on  ahead  of  the  headquarters 
staflf,  we  had  naturally  lost  the  advantage  of  being  billeted 
by  Essad's  gendarmes.  When  we  finished  the  day's 
march  we  took  our  share  of  floor  space,  but  the  at- 
mosphere in  an  hour  generally  proved  too  much  for 
us. 

We  were  therefore  compelled  to  surrender,  and,  de- 
spite the  freezing  cold  and  the  driving  snow,  we  de- 
termined to  put  up  a  small  tent  I  received  at  the  time  of 
the  destruction  of  the  military  stores  at  Kraguyevatz 
Arsenal.  It  was  only  three  feet  high  and  open  at  the 
end ;  hence  it  was  only  an  indifferent  shelter  against  the 
blizzard.  However,  I  ordered  my  man  to  build  an  im- 
mense fire  near  the  open  end,  and  we  went  to  sleep. 

Three  hours  later  we  awoke,  to  find  the  wretched  tent 
ablaze.  We  struggled  out  with  difficulty  and  managed  to 
save  most  of  our  belongings,  but  the  tent  and  the  sleeping 
rugs  were  gone.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  remain 
at  our  camp  fire  until  dawn. 

VIII— A  THOUSAND  MEN  AND  HORSES  OVER 
A  ROCKY  GORGE 

On  the  next  march  a  new  experience  awaited  us.  The 
road  ran  for  miles  through  a  rocky  gorge,  and  nothing 
else.  The  bed  of  the  river  was  the  only  means  of  travel. 
There  is  nothing  so  nerve-racking  as  to  keep  one's  eyes 
constantly  glued  to  the  ground,  when  each  step  presents 
a  new  problem.  Of  course,  every  now  and  then  one  of 
the  stones  would  turn  under  our  feet,  and  this  meant  a 
plunge  up  to  the  knees  in  icy  water. 

So  far  as  the  eye  could  see  there  was  nothing  but  this 
rocky  bed,  winding  between  towering  basaltic  cliflFs.    The 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  271 

task  of  transporting  a  thousand  men  and  horses  under 
such  conditions  was  almost  superhuman.  If  the  Alban- 
ians had  been  openly  hostile  not  one  man  would  have 
come  out  alive. 

The  Albanian,  like  most  peasants,  is  grasping  and  fond 
of  money,  but  once  you  cross  his  threshold  your  person 
and  property  are  sacred.  I  never  had  the  slightest  fear 
once  I  entered  an  Albanian  house. 

On  the  road  everything  is  possible.  The  tribes  live 
at  war  with  one  another  and  respect  for  human  life  is 
non-existent.  It  would  have  been  as  much  as  our  lives 
were  worth  to  travel  an  hour  after  darkness.  But  during 
the  daylight  an  armed  party  inspires  a  certain  respect. 

The  men  physically  are  probably  the  handsomest  in 
Europe.  I  have  never  seen  anyv/here  such  beautiful 
children  as  those  of  the  Albanians.  Not  one  in  a  hun- 
dred knows  how  to  read  or  write  or  has  even  been  more 
than  twenty  miles  from  home. 

It  was  through  such  a  country  the  Serbians  had  to 
transport  soldiers,  and  that  with  the  Germans  and  the 
Bulgarians  in  close  pursuit. 

The  last  stages  of  the  march  were  probably  the  hard- 
est, as  fodder  for  the  animals  and  food  for  the  men 
was  practically  unprocurable.  Money  difficulties  also  in- 
creased daily,  the  Albanians  refusing  to  accept  Serbian 
script  at  any  rate  of  exchange.  They  would,  however, 
give  food  and  lodgings  for  articles  of  clothing,  shirts, 
underwear,  socks  and  boots.  On  the  last  stage  we  had, 
therefore,  to  resort  to  the  primitive  system  of  barter,  buy- 
ing a  night's  lodging  with  a  shirt  and  a  meal  with  a  pair 
of  socks. 

IX—WOLVES  LIVING  ON  CARCASSES  IN 
MOUNTAIN  PASSES 

In  the  mountains  just  before  Puka  I  discovered  the 


272  With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile 

first  tiace  of  wolves.  The  carcasses  of  dead  horses, 
which  were  now  numbered  by  scores,  showed  signs  of 
having  been  torn  by  them.  A  part  of  the  French  avia- 
tion corps,  which  was  preceding  us,  got  lost  in  the  snow 
and  darkness,  and  had  to  spend  the  night  in  the  open 
without  protection.  A  dozen  were  frostbitten,  but  no 
fatal  casualties.  After  six  days  we  finally  reached  the 
Drina  again,  a  swiftly  flowing  stream. 

Thence  the  march  to  Scutari  may  be  summed  up  in  the 
word  mud — mud  of  the  deepest  and  most  tenacious  kind, 
sometimes  only  reaching  to  the  ankles,  sometimes  to  the 
knees,  but  it  was  always  there. 

The  twenty-five  miles  between  the  Drina  ferry  and 
Scutari  represents  physical  effort  of  no  mean  order.  It 
was  the  finish  for  scores  of  unfortunate  pack  horses. 
During  the  last  two  days  they  got  practically  no  food. 
On  these  days  we  found  dead  horses  every  hundred 
yards.  When  at  last,  at  4  in  the  afternoon,  we  came  in 
sight  of  the  towers  and  minarets  of  Scutaria  every  one 
heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  streets  presented  a  won- 
derful sight,  being  thronged  with  Serbian  soldiers,  mixed 
with  French  aviators,  men  of  the  French  and  Serbian 
medical  staff  and  scores  of  the  Red  Cross  unit — British, 
French,  Russian  and  Greek. 

Scutari's  normal  population  of  40,000  had  been  in- 
creased by  100,000  Serbian  and  other  refugees.  Food 
was  running  scarce,  and  there  were  practically  no  ac- 
commodations. The  unfortunate  diplomatic  corps  was 
scattered  all  over  in  such  lodgings  as  could  be  found  for 
it.  The  headquarters  staff  took  possession  of  the  Hotel 
De  la  Ville.  I  learned  the  Danube  division,  which  had 
entered  Albania  by  Montenegro,  had  performed  the 
miracle  of  saving  part  of  its  field  artillery. 

The  fate  of  Serbia  was  worse  than  that  of  Belgium, 


With  the  Serbian  Stoics  in  Exile  273 

for  to  King  Albert's  subjects  there  always  remained 
France,  England  and  Holland  as  havens  of  refuge.  For 
King  Peter's  people  there  was  none.  On  the  one  hand, 
the  inhospitable  mountains  of  Montenegro  offered  a  bar- 
rier which  the  starving  people  were  powerless  to  cross. 
On  the  other  was  the  desolation  of  the  snow-capped  peaks 
of  Albania,  with  a  population  sullenly  hostile  to  Serbia 
and  everything  Serbian. 

But  even  if  they  had  been  willing  to  welcome  them 
with  open  arms  they  could  not  have  helped  them,  as  the 
mountaineers  of  Albania  live  themselves  all  their  lives 
on  the  ragged  edge  of  starvation.  The  catastrophe,  there- 
fore, was  beyond  human  aid,  and  Serbia  had  to  drink 
the  cup  of  bitterness  to  the  dregs  and  witness  the  foun- 
dering of  all  that  was  left  of  her  manhood  and  national 
wealth.  It  was  the  death  agony  of  one  of  the  bravest 
nations  in  Europe,  of  a  people  who  had  for  five  long 
years  fought  four  victorious  wars  for  its  national  exist- 
ence, and  at  last  succumbed  to  a  combination  of  forces 
three  times  stronger  than  itself. 


TALES  OF  THE  TANKS— WITH  THE 
ARMORED  MONSTERS  IN  BATTLE 

Adventures  as  Romantic  as  Mediaeval  Legends 

Told  by  the  Men  in  the  Tanks 

Here  are  four  tales  as  strange  as  "Arabian  Nights"  direct  from 
the  great  battles  of  the  Somme.  It  was  on  these  battlegrounds 
that  armored  monsters  plunged  into  the  enemies'  ranks,  spitting 
flame  and  death,  and  creating  consternation  among  the  German 
soldiers.  These  armored  tractors  are  an  American  invention. 
While  the  huge  death-machines  were  constructed  in  England, 
they  were  built  on  plans  from  the  United  States.  It  was  for 
divulging  secrets  about  these  tractors  that  Mile.  Mata  Hari,  the 
Dutch-Javanese  dancer,  was  arrested  in  Paris  as  a  spy  and 
sentenced  to  execution. 

I— STORY  OF  A  YOUNG  AUSTRALIAN   IN  A 
TANK  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELD 

Monday. — Out  for  first  time.  Strange  sensation. 
Worse  than  being  in  a  submarine.  At  first  unable  to  see 
anything  but  imagined  a  lot.  Bullets  began  to  rain  like 
hailstones  on  a  galvanized  roof  at  first,  then  like  a  series 
of  hammer  blows.     We  passed  through  it  all  unscathed. 

Suddenly  we  gave  a  terrible  lurch.  I  thought  we  were 
booked  through.  Lookout  said  we  were  astride  an  enemy 
trench.  "Give  them  hell !"  was  the  order.  We  gave  them 
it.     Our  guns  raked  and  swept  trenches  right  and  left. 

Got  a  peep  at  frightened  Huns.  It  was  grimly  humor- 
ous. They  tried  to  bolt  like  scared  rabbits,  but  were  shot 
down  in  bunches  before  getting  to  their  burrows.  Ma- 
chine guns  brought  forward.  Started  vicious  rattle  on 
our  "hide."    Not  the  least  impression  was  made.    Shells 

274 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  275 

began  to  burst.    We  moved  on  and  overtook  some  more 
frightened  Huns.     Cut  their  ranks  to  ribbons  with  our 

fire. 

They  ran  Hke  men  possessed.  Officer  tried  to  rally 
them.  They  awaited  our  coming  for  a  while.  As  soon 
as  our  guns  began  to  spit  at  them  they  were  off  once 
more.  Infantry  rounded  them  up  and  survivors  surren- 
dered. Very  curious  about  us.  Stood  open  mouthed  and 
wide  eyed  watching,  but  weren't  much  the  wiser. 

Experience  was  not  altogether  pleasant  at  first.  Tank 
sickness  is  as  bad  as  sea  sickness  until  you  get  used  to 

it. 

Tuesday.— Off  for  another  cruise.  Peppering  begun  at 
once.  Thought  old  thing  was  going  to  be  drowned  in 
shower  of  bullets.  Things  quiet  down  quickly.  Silly 
blighters  thought  they  could  rush  the  tank  like  they  would 
a  fort.  Dashed  up  from  all  sides.  We  fired  at  them 
point  blank.  Devilish  plucky  chaps  some  of  them,  for  all 
their  madness.  The  survivors  had  another  try.  We  spat 
at  them  venomously.    More  of  them  went  down. 

The  blessed  old  tub  gave  a  sudden  jerk.  God  in  heaven, 
thought  I,  it's  goodby  to  earth;  but  it  wasn't.  Only 
some  Hun  dead  and  wounded  we  had  skidded  into.  The 
rain  of  bullets  resumed.  It  was  like  as  if  hundreds  of 
rivets  were  being  hammered  into  the  hide  of  the  tank. 
We  rushed  through.  Soon  the  music  had  charms,  and 
we  got  to  like  the  regular  rhythm  of  it. 

Suddenly  a  jolt,  and  our  hearts  jolted  in  our  mouths 
in  sympathy.  Nothing  doing  in  the  mishap  line.  Only 
some  unwonted  obstacle.  Heavier  "strumming"  on  our 
keyboard  outside,  and  more  regular.  Machine  guns  at  it 
now.  Straddled  on  as  though  we  like  it.  A  tremendous 
thud.  The  whole  outfit  seemed  done  for.  Nearly  jumped 
out  of  my  skin.  Looked  at  each  other  and  wondered 
what  it  was.    Still  a  roof  over  our  heads,  thank  God. 


276  Tales  of  the  Tanks 

Wednesday. — Early  start.  Roughest  voyage  yet. 
Waves  of  fire  seemed  to  break  over  us.  Tremendous 
crash.  Then  another,  and  several  others  at  intervals. 
Silence  for  a  time.  Party  of  Huns  came  to  meet  us  out- 
side the  village.  Very  stout  old  gentleman  in  front. 
Thought  it  was  the  Mayor  and  village  bigpots  to  give  us 
a  civic  welcome.  Mistaken.  They  meant  to  give  warm 
reception,  but  not  as  we  understood  the  word.  Let  fly 
with  machine  guns.  Then  tried  silly  boarding  tactics. 
We  laughed.    Our  guns  answered  theirs. 

Tank  reception  committee  dispersed  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke  and  flame ;  no  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  Fat  old 
gentleman  only  visible  member  of  deputation.  Stood 
openmouthed.  Purple  with  rage.  Tank  bore  down.  Old 
gent  started  to  run.  Funnier  than  a  sack  race.  Old  gent 
flung  himself  to  earth  with  many  signs  to  surrender. 

Thursday. — Got  into  the  village,  and  passed  down  be- 
tween two  irregular  rows  of  wrecked  houses.  Hundreds 
of  Huns  came  rushing  up  from  cellars  and  from  behind 
ruins  to  see  us.  Some  had  eyes  staring  out  of  head. 
Looked  surprised  and  even  frightened. 

One  blighter  made  a  rush  at  us  with  a  clubbed  rifle. 
Made  a  terrible  swipe  at  the  tank.  Smashed  his  rifle, 
and  made  a  nasty  noise  on  our  roof.  Hurt  himself  more 
than  he  hurt  us.  Off  for  a  joy  ride  after  some  nice  Huns 
who  took  to  flight  as  we  came  up. 

Friday. — Early  afloat.  Usual  showers  of  bullets  and  a 
few  shells  on  the  way.  Got  right  across  a  trench.  Made 
the  sparks  fly.  Went  along  parapet  routing  out  Huns 
everywhere.  Enemy  terrified.  Tried  to  run,  but  couldn't 
keep  it  up  under  our  fire.  Threw  up  the  sponge  and 
surrendered  in  batches. 

One  cheeky  chap  said  he  didn't  think  it  was  fair  to 
fight  with  such  things.  We  said  that  was  our  affair,  and 
we  could  stand  the  racket  Germany  cared  to  make  over 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  277- 

it.  Asked  one  chap  if  the  thought  we  should  have  got 
permission  from  the  Kaiser  before  using  them.  Didn't 
see  the  joke.  Took  about  two  hundred  prisoners.  Killed 
and  wounded  as  many  more.    Tired  out  when  through. 

Saturday. — On  the  move  before  breakfast.  Terrible 
crash  on  first  go  off.  Thought  we  had  collided  with  a 
wandering  world.  Weathered  the  storm.  Got  busy  on 
enemy  trenches.  Rare  good  sport.  Enemy  tried  a  sur- 
prise for  infantry — Yorkshiremen — advancing  to  attack. 
We  tried  a  surprise,  too,  and  ours  came  off  first.  Huns 
weren't  pleased.  Didn't  think  it  was  playing  the  game 
according  to  Potsdam  rules. 

We  waddled  into  their  ambush  for  the  attacking  troops. 
Never  saw  men  so  frightened.  Fled  panicstricken  in  all 
directions.  Only  a  few  chaps  stayed  behind  and  tried 
to  stop  us  by  machine  gun  fire.  Smashed  them  to  bits 
and  left  their  machine  guns  to  be  picked  up  by  the  York- 
shiremen they  hoped  to  surprise. 

Went  snorting  after  the  enemy  wherever  we  could  find 
them.  Their  losses  were  terrible.  Later  strong  detach- 
ments tried  to  make  their  way  back,  supported  by  big- 
guns.  Lined  up  across  the  road  and  gave  them  hot  time. 
Every  time  they  tried  to  rush  through  we  ripped  their 
ranks  to  bits.    At  last  they  gave  it  up.     Very  wise. 

Sunday. — Good  work  of  frightening  Huns  continued. 
Better  day,  better  deed.  Fritz  didn't  think  that.  Blight- 
ers opened  rifle  fire  on  us  at  two  hundred  yards.  It 
went  like  water  off  a  duck's  back.  Fritz  couldn't  make 
it  out.  Kept  up  the  fire,  but  got  a  bit  nervy  as  the  blessed 
old  thing  kept  waddling  up  to  him.  Ladled  out  death 
as  you  might  vamp  out  indifferent  music  from  a  hurdy- 
gurdy. 

Fritz  got  fits.  No  fight  left  in  him.  Prisoners  scared 
to  death.  Some  of  them  acted  as  though  they  believed 
that  we  used  our  tanks  for  m.aking  sausages  out  of  pris- 


278  Tales  of  the  Tanks 

oners.    We  had  a  lot  of  trouble  explaining  that  once  they 
surrendered  they  were  safe. 

Finished  an  exciting  week.  Got  plenty  of  fun,  but  one 
wants  a  good  rest  after  a  speel  with  a  tank. 

II_STORY  OF  THE  TANKS  THAT  STORMED  A 
CASTLE 

Told  by  Philip  Gihbs,   War  Correspondent,  in  France 

After  the  battle  of  Flanders  the  tank  pilots  have  been 
able  to  tell  the  tale  of  their  adventures  after  a  spell  of 
rest,  badly  needed  by  the  young  men,  who  crawled  out  of 
their  steel  boxes  speechless,  bruised  and  dazed. 

For  seventeen  hours  one  of  the  tank  pilots  and  his 
crew  stayed  out,  fighting  all  the  time,  and  for  twenty- 
four  hours  another  crew  went  through,  not  with  inces- 
sant fighting,  but  bogged  and  unbogged,  and  struggling 
on  and  getting  into  action  and  slouching  back  after  a  good 
record  of  achievement. 

The  tanks  have  justified  themselves  again  and  won 
their  spurs — spurs  as  big  as  gridirons. 

In  the  battle  of  Flanders  they  had  plenty  of  chance 
to  show  what  they  could  do.  The  way  of  the  allied  ad- 
vance was  hindered  by  a  number  of  little  concrete  forts 
built  in  the  ruins  of  farmsteads,  which  had  withstood  the 
British  gunfire.  At  Plum  Farm  and  Apple  Villa  and  in 
the  stronger  and  more  elaborate  fortified  points  like 
Frezenberg  and  Pommern  Castle  and  Pommern  Redoubt 
the  German  machine  gunners  held  out  when  everything 
about  them  was  chaos  and  death,  and  played  a  barrage 
of  bullets  on  the  advancing  Allies.  Platoons  and  half 
platoons  attacked  them  in  detail  at  great  cost  of  life,  and 
it  was  in  such  places  that  the  tanks  were  of  the  most 
advantage. 

It  was  at  Pommern  Castle,  east  of  St.  Julien,  that  one 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  279 

of  the  tanks  did  its  best.  Do  not  imagine  the  castle  as  a 
kind  of  structure  with  big  walls  and  portcullis  and  high 
turrets,  but  slabs  of  concrete  in  a  huddle  of  sandbags 
above  a  nest  of  deep  dugouts.  On  the  other  side  of  it 
was  Pommern  Redoubt,  of  the  same  style  of  defense. 

The  British  were  fighting  hard  for  the  castle  and  hav- 
ing a  bad  time  under  its  fire.  A  tank  came  to  help  them 
and  advanced  under  the  swish  of  bullets  to  the  German 
emplacements,  lurching  up  the  piled  bags  over  the 
heaped-up  earth  and  squatting  on  the  top  like  a  gro- 
tesque creature  playing  the  old  game  of  "Fm  king  of  the 
castle.    Get  down,  you  dirty  rascals." 

The  "dirty  rascals,"  who  were  German  soldiers,  un- 
shaven and  uncovered  in  the  wet  mud,  did  not  like  the 
look  of  their  visitors,  who  were  firing  with  great  ferocity. 
They  fled  to  the  cover  of  Pommern  Redoubt,  beyond. 
Then  the  tank  moved  back  to  let  the  infantry  get  in,  but 
as  soon  as  it  turned  its  back  the  Germans,  with  renewed 
pluck,  took  possession  of  the  castle  again. 

The  men  who  were  fighting  round  about  again  gave  the 
signal  to  the  tank  to  "get  busy"  so  it  came  back,  and, 
with  the  infantry  on  its  flanks,  made  another  assault,  so 
that  the  Germans  fled  again. 

The  Pommern  Redoubt  was  attacked  in  the  same  way, 
with  good  help  from  the  tanks. 

Frezenberg  Redoubt  was  another  place  where  the  tanks 
were  helpful,  and  they  did  good  work  at  Westhoek. 

One  of  them  attacked  and  helped  to  capture  a  strong 
point  west  of  St.  Julien  from  which  a  good  many  Ger- 
mans came  out  to  surrender.  Afterward  some  tanks 
went  through  the  village,  but  they  had  to  get  out  again 
in  a  hurry  to  escape  capture  in  the  German  counter- 
attacks. 

It  was  not  easy  to  get  back  in  a  hurry,  as  by  that  hour 
in  the  afternoon  the  rain  had  turned  the  ground  to  a 


28o  Tales  of  the  Tanks 

swamp  aid  the  tanks  sank  deep  in  it  with  the  wet  mud 
halfway  up  their  flanks  and  sHpped  and  sHthered  back 
when  tby  tried  to  struggle  out.  Many  of  the  officers 
and  crev  had  to  get  out  of  their  steel  forts,  risking  the 
heavy  sidling  and  machine-gun  fire,  to  dig  their  way 
out ;  anc  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Julien  they  worked 
for  two  hours  in  the  open  to  debog  their  tank,  while  the 
German;  tried  to  destroy  them  by  direct  hits. 

In  a  iarm  somewhere  in  this  neighborhood  no  fewer 
than  si^ty  Germans  came  out  with  their  hands  up  in 
surren(ir  as  soon  as  a  tank  was  at  close  quarters.  The 
story  %  told  that  at  another  place  the  mere  threat  of  a 
tank's  ipproach  was  enough  to  decide  a  party  of  eight 
to  give'm.  It  is  certain  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  German 
infantrj  has  great  fear  of  the  "beasts." 

In^his  battle  there  was  not  a  single  case  of  attack 

upQi  a  tank  by  infantry,  although  we  know  that  they 

h?^e  been  training  behind  their  lines  with  dummy  tanks, 

according  to  definite  rules  laid   down  by  the   German 

command. 

One  fight  did  take  place  with  a  tank,  and  it  was  surely 
the  most  fantastic  duel  that  had  happened  in  the  war.  It 
was  queer  enough,  as  I  described  a  day  or  two  ago  when 
one  of  the  British  airmen  flew  over  a  motor  car  and 
engaged  in  a  revolver  duel  with  the  German  officer,  but 
even  that  strange  picture  is  less  weird  than  when  a  Ger- 
man airplane  flew  low  over  a  tank  and  tried  to  put  out 
its  "eyes"  by  a  burst  of  machine  gun  bullets. 

Imagine  the  scene,  that  muddy  monster,  crawling 
through  the  slime  with  sharp  stabs  of  fire  coming  from 
its  flanks  and  above  an  engine  with  wings,  swooping 
round  and  about  it  like  an  angry  albatross  and  spattering 
its  armor  with  bullets.  It  was  an  unequal  fight,  for  the 
tank  just  ignored  that  waspish  machine-gun  fire  and 
went  on  its  way  with  only  a  scratch  or  two. 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  281 

The  tanks  were  in  action  around  the  marshes  and 
woodlands  by  Shrewsbury  Forest.  Here  there  was  very 
severe  infantry  fighting  and  the  Germans  made  desperate 
resistance,  followed  by  many  counterattacks,  so  that  the 
progress  of  the  British  was  slow  and  difficult  and  the 
tanks  helped  them  as  best  they  could. 

One  trouble  of  the  tanks  is  their  limited  vision,  and 
this  and  the  darkness  before  the  battle  were  the  cause 
of  an  unexpected  collision,  which  adds  to  the  strange 
history  of  the  mechanical  monsters,  so  that  it  is  all  beyond 
the  wildest  flight  of  imagination. 

One  of  the  tanks  was  crawling  up  to  get  into  position 
for  attack,  and  unaware  that  it  was  bearing  steadily  down 
upon  one  of  those  light  railway  engines  which  I  saw 
steaming  along  in  the  centre  of  the  Ypres  salient  on  the 
morning  of  battle.  It  was  grunting  and  whistling  so  that 
it  could  be  heard  a  mile  away,  but  not  a  sound  of  it  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  pilot  and  the  crew  in  the  tank,  where 
their  engine  also  was  laboring  with  rattle  of  steel.  The 
tank  bore  on  through  the  darkness  and  its  mighty  bat- 
tering ram  hit  the  light  engine  fair  and  square  and 
knocked  it  off  the  rails.  There  were  explanations  and 
apologies  and  much  tugging  and  heaving  with  all  the  pow- 
ers of  a  tank  before  the  engine  was  righted  again  and 
went  on  its  way.  (Told  in  New  York  Times — Copy- 
right, 1917.) 

Ill— STORY  OF  THE  TANK  THAT  FOUGHT  A 
RAILROAD  ENGINE 

Told  to  the  Montreal  (Canada)  ''Herald  and  Star^' 

"Hi,  Bodger!  Just  keep  clear  of  my  weighing  ma- 
chine! It's  only  up  to  a  quarter  of  a  ton,  and  I'm  not 
taking  any  risks." 


282  Talcs  of  the  Tanks 

Temporary  Captain  Bodger,  R.G.A.,  turned  sadly 
away  from  the  Ration  Depot  and  lumbered  back  to  his 
howitzers.  He  was  an  excellent  officer,  and  his  8  in. 
shells  reached  their  address  in  Bocheland  with  the  pre- 
cision of  a  postal  delivery.  But  he  weighed  280  pounds, 
and  his  girth  was  threatening  his  career. 

Only  yesterday  he  had  walked  five  miles  to  a  field 
artillery  observing  station  in  the  trenches,  whence  he  was 
to  range  on  a  new  German  redoubt,  and  had  ignomini- 
ously  failed  to  get  through  the  tunnel.  A  party  of  grin- 
ning Tommies  had  taken  40  minutes  to  enlarge  the 
entrance  for  him;  the  subaltern  to  whom  the  observa- 
tion post  belonged  had  complained  of  his  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  enemy's  airmen  by  waiting  outside,  and 
the  general,  who  unfortunately  went  by,  had  regarded 
him  with  a  send-him-to-the-base  look  in  his  eye.  Some- 
thing must  be  done,  but  what  ? 

Bodger  had  a  light  lunch  of  three  chops  and  a  plate  of 
ham,  trifled  with  some  suet  pudding  and  cheese,  and 
ordered  a  second  bottle  of  beer  to  assist  his  meditations. 
But  the  only  idea  that  emerged  was  a  transfer  to  Coast 
Defence,  and  this  involved  boat  work,  which  his  stomach 
loathed.  With  a  regretful  glance  at  the  empty  bottles, 
he  went  back  to  his  work. 

But  in  the  meantime  an  intelligence  of  a  higher  order 
had  been  shaping  his  destinies.  The  Army  commander, 
hearing  the  tale  of  the  tunnel  and  the  observation  post, 
had  remarked :  "Sound  gunner,  is  he  ?  No  use  sending 
him  to  the  Transport;  lorries  are  overloaded  already. 
There's  one  thing  in  this  Army  that's  up  to  his  weight, 
and  that's  a  tank.     Shift  him  over,  will  you?" 

When  the  great  man  spoke  things  moved  quickly,  and 
in  the  battery  Bodger  met  an  orderly  with  a  "memo," 
directing  him  to  report  at  once  to  H.  M.  landship  Mas- 
iodon  for  instruction.     The  Mastodon  was  a  new  ship. 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  283 

Her  commander,  a  cavalry  major,  was  pleased  to  get  a 
good  gunnery  man  who  was  also  useful  as  shifting  bal- 
last. Bodger  took  kindly  to  his  new  duties,  and  the  tank 
steered  sweetly  under  his  sympathetic  hand. 

A  week  later  the  Mastodon  took  part  in  a  minor  push 
— a  little  affair  of  straightening  the  line. 

There  was  a  parapet  to  get  over,  and  the  Mastodon, 
according  to  custom,  cocked  up  her  tail  and  charged  it. 

Now  if  things  had  gone  right  the  tail  should  have 
come  down  with  a  whump,  throwing  her  nose  up,  and 
she  should  have  cleared  the  bank  like  a  porpoise  jumping. 
But  the  glue-like  mud  piled  under  her  belly,  her  tail  re- 
mained up,  her  nose  down,  and  she  hit  the  face  of  the 
bank  with  a  bump  like  a  luggage  train  in  collision.  She 
backed  out,  but  her  tail  remained  high  in  air. 

It  was  then  that  Bodger  first  distinguished  himself. 
He  squeezed  through  a  door.  Heedless  of  the  bullets 
which  hummed  round  him,  he  swarmed  up  the  tail  with 
the  determination  of  a  bull  walrus  and  sat  on  the  end  of 
it.  There  was  no  mistake  about  the  tail  coming  down 
this  time.  The  Mastodon  charged  again,  nose  well  up, 
and  got  over  the  bank,  kicking  up  a  shower  of  clods 
behind  her. 

Bodger  stuck  to  his  perch,  though  the  shell-splinters 
whanged  on  the  armour,  and  got  off  with  nothing  worse 
than  a  chipped  ear.  After  this  he  became  a  tank  en- 
thusiast, and  when  his  major  was  promoted  Admiral  of 
the  Fleet  and  hoisted  his  flag  in  the  Mammoth,  Bodger 
succeeded  to  the  command  of  the  Mastodon.  He  painted 
her  in  a  beautiful  chromatic  color-scheme,  and  fitted  a 
larder  and  a  cushioned  beer-bin.  He  worked  up  his  crew 
at  gunnery  till  they  could  hit  a  Boche  parapet  while 
bumping  across  country.  He  enjoyed  four  solid  meals  a 
day  and  ceased  to  repine  at  his  increasing  weight. 

The  Big  Push  came  on,  and  Bodger's  Mastodon  proved 


284  Tales  of  the  Tanks 

the  smartest  landship  in  the  fleet,  while  at  gunnery  she 
could  have  given  points  to  the  Excellent.  There  came  a 
day  when  we  had  pierced  deeply  into  the  German  lines, 
and  with  it  came  Bodger's  chance,  which  has  made  his 
name  in  the  Land  Fleet.  He  saw  a  locomotive  half  a 
mile  in  front  dragging  off  a  couple  of  howitzers  along 
a  light  railway,  and,  regardless  of  his  admiral's  warning 
toots  he  made  for  it  across  the  trenches. 

Furious  Germans  tried  to  rush  him  as  he  ploughed 
through  their  lines  but  he  held  the  Mastodon  to  her 
course,  spouting  flame  on  both  broadsides.  Field  guns 
were  hurriedly  turned  on  him,  but  the  shells  missed  or 
glanced  from  the  armour.  He  headed  off  the  locomotive 
by  a  bare  50  fathoms,  and,  reversing  his  starboard  chain, 
jockeyed  the  Mastodon  sharply  round  to  meet  it. 

Now  when  a  60-ton  locomotive  hauling  double  its 
weight  of  heavy  howitzer,  meets  a  1 00-ton  tank,  both 
all  out,  something  is  almost  certain  to  happen.  This 
time  it  was  the  unexpected. 

The  antagonists  stood  on  their  tails,  locked  for  a  mo- 
ment like  wrestlers,  and  then  suddenly  disappeared  from 
view.  The  railway  crossed  a  hollow  road  at  the  point  of 
encounter  and  the  bridge  had  given  way.  Down  went 
the  locomotive,  wheels  uppermost,  with  the  Mastodon 
on  top  of  it.  The  trucks  with  the  monster  howitzers 
lumbered  up  and  pitched  on  top  of  the  heap.  But  the 
tank,  though  dented  like  an  old  tin  can,  was  little  the 
worse,  and  the  Germans,  who  expected  to  find  a  wreck, 
were  met  by  shells  and  machine-gun  fire. 

There  was  no  holding  our  men  that  day,  and  they 
pressed  on  well  beyond  the  hollow  road  where  the  Mas- 
todon had  "brought  up."  When  the  leading  battalion 
reached  her  they  found  Bodger  lunching  on  deck,  with  a 
dozen  bottles  of  beer  standing  ready  for  his  visitors.  He 
was    asked    to    describe    his    trip    across    the    German 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  285 

trenches,  but  preferred  to  expatiate  on  the  perfections  of 
his  cushioned  beer-bin.  "Only  two  bottles  broken,  and  I 
believe  one  of  them  had  gone  flat !" 

A  new  1,000-horsepower  tank,  carrying  a  6  inch  gun, 
is  ready  for  launching,  and  Bodger  will  command  her. 
He  is  looking  forward  to  steering  her  through  the  streets 
of  Berlin. 

IV— STORY  OF  THE  BATTLE  MONSTERS  AT 
FALL  OF  THIEPVAL 

Told  by  Percival  Phillips,  with  British  Army  in  France 

The  capture  of  the  greatest  Prussian  stronghold  be- 
tween the  Ancre  and  the  Somme  involved  hard  and  bitter 
fighting.  Nowhere  on  the  western  front  have  the  Prus- 
sian troops  made  stronger  resistance  against  odds  or  given 
greater  trouble  in  their  underground  lairs,  dugouts  and 
tunnels.  We  know  now  that  the  Prussian  lines  yielded 
many  marvellous  examples  of  catacomb  work  beneath  the 
hills  and  valleys  of  Northern  France  for  the  shelter  of 
their  battalions.  The  British  troops  spoke  to-day  soberly 
and  impressively  of  scenes  in  the  buried  fortress  that 
lies  below  the  blasted  ridge. 

Two  "tanks"  played  an  important  part  in  the  capture, 
but  the  greatest  "tank"  story  of  the  day  concerns  another 
part  of  the  line — the  capture  of  Gueudecourt;  and  it  is 
so  unusual  and  so  thrilling  as  to  give  it  precedence  over 
the  exploits  at  Thiepval.  This  "tank"  killed  three  hun- 
dred Prussians  who  tried  to  storm  it. 

The  "tank"  had  assisted  in  cleaning  up  Gueudecourt, 
and  infantry  followed  in  its  wake  through  the  village, 
cheering  mightily.  The  shallow  cellar  shelters  held  about 
four  hundred  prisoners,  who  gladly  gave  themselves  up, 
and  the  business  at  Gueudecourt  was  easily  finished. 

Then  the  "tank"  started  on  a  tour  of  its  own  in  the 


286  Talcs  oj  ike  Tanks 

direction  of  a  hostile  trench  beyond  the  town.  Its  prog- 
ress was  a  signal  for  other  Prussian  refugees  lurking  in 
the  shell  craters  to  signal  their  submission  to  the  advanc- 
ing monster. 

Majestically  the  "tank"  wallowed  forward  amid  the 
fluttering  of  white  handkerchiefs  that  dotted  the  field 
shell  holes,  and  hastily  scooped  out  one  man  from  his 
hiding  place.  These  isolated  ones  would  have  been  made 
prisoners  in  the  "tank,"  but  it  had  neither  time  nor  ac- 
commodation.   Bigger  game  lurked  in  the  ground  ahead. 

It  ambled  on  its  lonely  advance  until  a  deep,  broad 
fissure  in  the  tumbled  earth  made  apparent  the  lodging 
place  for  many  armed  men.  The  "tank's"  intention  was 
to  sit  astride  of  this  trench  as  a  kind  of  deadly  jest, 
calculated  to  fill  any  troops  with  horror  and  play  its  ma- 
chine guns  freely  about,  but  suddenly  it  halted  its  engines 
and  stopped. 

Instantly  the  Prussians  swarmed  out  of  the  earth  and 
buzzed  around  the  "tank"  like  bees.  You  must  give  them 
credit  for  unusual  courage,  for  although  hidden  batteries 
rained  bullets  at  them  they  made  desperate  attempts  to 
storm  the  travelling  fort  and  to  pierce  its  hide  with  rifle 
fire  and  kill  the  crew  within. 

They  might  as  well  have  attacked  a  battle  ship  with 
spades.  The  machine  guns  whirled  incessantly  and  the 
pile  of  dead  Prussians  grew  steadily  around  the  monster, 
but  still  there  were  rushes  by  these  foolish  men,  who 
clambered  to  the  steel  roof  and  hoisted  one  another  up  in 
the  hope  of  finding  loopholes  or  joints  in  the  armor  of  the 
strange  beast. 

Some  of  them  carried  dead  men  on  their  shoulders 
before  they  themselves  were  dropped  by  the  hidden  gun- 
ners. It  was  a  fearful  and  indescribable  sight — this 
futile  combat  of  men  with  machinery.  The  "tank"  fought 
stolidly. 


Tales  of  the  Tanks  287 

Inside,  the  crew  were  filled  with  joy.  Never  in  their 
wildest  dreams  had  they  conceived  the  possibility  of  hay- 
ing Prussians  crowding  forward  to  be  killed.  Never  did 
gunners  work  their  guns  more  heartily.  All  they  asked 
was  for  more  Prussians. 

The  strange  tumult  drew  the  attention  of  the  infantry 
engaged  in  cleaning  up  odd  corners  throughout  Gueude- 
court.  They  ran  to  the  rescue  of  the  "tank,"  but  it  did 
not  need  rescuing.  It  was  quite  happy.  The  infantry 
took  a  hand  and  beat  the  Prussians  off,  or,  rather,  what 
was  left  of  them.  They  took  a  few  discouraged  prisoners 
from  a  field  of  battle  thick  with  corpses.  At  least  three 
hundred  Germans  lay  dead  around  that  "tank." 


MY  ESCAPE  FROM  THE  TURKS 
DISGUISED  AS  A  WOMAN 

The  Story  of  a  Wonderful  Feat 

Told  by  Private  Mir  on  D.  Arber,  Army  Service  Corps 

Whilst  living  in  Jaflfa,  Palestine,  the  author — a  Russian  subject — 
volunteered  to  join  the  British  Red  Cross,  but  before  he  could 
leave,  Turkey  declared  war,  and  he  was  arrested  and  sent  to  a 
prison  camp  in  the  interior.  From  this  dreary  place  he  made  his 
escape,  and,  cleverly  disguised  as  a  Bedouin  woman,  actually 
crossed  the  terrible  desert  of  Sinai,  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
miles,  to  the  verge  of  the  Suez  Canal.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Canal,  when  within  an  ace  of  regaining  his  liberty,  he  was 
seized  by  Turkish  patrols  and  turned  back  into  the  desert.  Sick 
at  heart,  he  retraced  his  steps,  secured  another  female  disguise, 
and — let  him  tell  his  own  story  as  he  tells  it  in  that  thrilling 
journal  of  adventure,  the  Wide  World  Magazine. 

1— "I  WAS  A  RUSSIAN  MEDICAL  STUDENT  IN 
PALESTINE" 

Before  the  war  I  was  a  Russian  medical  student.  On 
the  outbreak  of  hostilities  between  England  and  Germany 
I  visited  the  British  Consul  at  Jaflfa,  in  Palestine,  where 
I  was  then  residing,  and  after  volunteering  for  service 
with  the  British  Red  Cross  obtained  from  him  the  neces- 
sary documents  to  enable  me  to  take  up  work  with  that 
organization.  I  was  most  anxious  to  leave  Palestine  at 
once,  as  I  feared  what  the  Turks  might  do;  but  to  my 
dismay  I  was  held  up  by  the  Customs  authorities,  who 
discovered  the  official  British  papers  in  my  pockets. 

Just  two  days  afterwards  Turkey  declared  war,  and 
the  situation  in  Jaflfa  became  horrible.    The  Government 

288 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  289 

confiscated  all  property  belonging  to  the  Allies  that 
they  could  lay  hands  upon,  and  its  officials  raided  the 
clothing  establishments  and  commandeered  the  whole 
stock  of  material.  I  even  saw  such  articles  as  silks  and 
women's  hosiery  taken  away  by  the  Turkish  officers — 
no  doubt  intended  for  their  wives.  Proprietors  of  horse 
vehicles  were  deprived  of  their  sole  means  of  livelihood 
by  the  ruthless  confiscation  of  their  animals  and  carts, 
and  all  mules  or  camels  found  in  the  streets  were  also 
seized  to  carry  ammunition  and  stores  to  the  Egyptian 
frontier.  Such  tradesmen  as  cabinet-makers  and  metal- 
workers were  forced  to  give  their  services  for  nothing, 
and,  failing  prompt  compliance,  were  thrown  into  prison, 
there  to  remain  under  the  most  awful  conditions.  The 
Turks  made  a  thorough  job  of  the  looting ;  people  in  the 
streets  were  forcibly  relieved  of  any  wearing  apparel 
that  had  the  slightest  military  use,  and  their  leggings, 
raincoats,  and  similar  articles  were  annexed  by  the  Turk- 
ish officers.  Houses  were  entered  and  robbed  of  bed- 
ding, mattresses,  and  pillows  for  the  benefit  of  Turkish 
wounded,  and  private  dwellings  and  public  institutions 
alike — for  example,  the  Anglo-Palestine  Bank — were  sys- 
tematically searched  and  valuables,  money,  and  bank- 
notes confiscated.  The  Turk  is  a  past-master  in  the  art 
of  looting. 

Two  days  after  the  declaration  of  war  orders  were 
received  from  Constantinople  for  the  expulsion  from 
Turkish  territory  of  all  subjects  of  the  Allies.  Men, 
women,  and  children  were  accosted  in  the  streets,  and 
proof  of  their  nationality  demanded.  If  belonging  to 
one  of  the  AlHed  nations  they  were  herded  together  and 
conveyed  during  the  night  from  Jafifa  to  Egypt  in  an 
Italian  steamer.  The  sights  witnessed  were  most  dis- 
tressing, parents  being  separated  from  their  children 
and  husbands  from  their  wives.    A  number  of  small 


290  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

boats  arrived  during  the  night  to  take  the  people  out  to 
the  ship,  it  being  impossible  to  bring  a  large  vessel  close 
in.  After  the  unfortunate  refugees  had  been  put  in  the 
boats  they  were  taken  by  the  Arab  boatmen  about  half- 
way to  the  ship.  Here  the  rowers  rested  on  their  oars 
and  demanded  large  sums  of  money  before  completing 
the  journey.  In  many  cases  the  poor  folk  were  unable 
to  pay. 

II— "I  SAW  ARABS  AND  TURKS  ILLTREAT  THE 

NUNS" 

In  a  certain  hospital  at  Jafifa — this  I  know  personally 
to  be  true — the  French  nuns  there,  who  had  with  unceas- 
ing care  and  attention  devoted  themselves  to  sick  and 
needy  Arabs  and  Turks,  were  now  rewarded  for  their 
past  unselfish  labors  by  the  grossest  ill-treatment,  being 
driven  out  without  any  thought  as  to  what  was  to  become 
of  them.  One  incident  in  particular  well  depicts  the 
atrocious  treatment  meted  out  to  these  devoted  women 
by  the  Turks.  An  old  man  who  had  been  at  this  hospital 
for  twenty  years  told  me  that  when  German  and  Turkish 
comm.andants  visited  the  place  they  asked  the  French 
orderly  why  the  sick  Turkish  troops  had  no  food  to 
eat,  to  which  he  replied  that  there  was  no  money  with 
which  to  obtain  it.  Thereupon  these  heartless  officials 
ordered  the  Frenchman  to  be  seized  and  soundly  flogged. 

From  now  onward  the  position  for  subjects  of  the 
Allies  became  worse  and  worse.  Directly  hostilities  be- 
gan, gendarmes  came  to  our  house  and  took  me  away 
in  the  presence  of  my  mother  and  sister.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible parting,  as  may  be  easily  imagined.  The  distress 
of  the  two  women  was  most  pitiful,  and  I  dreaded  to  think 
what  their  fate  might  be  when  left  unprotected.  Be- 
cause of  the  natural  outburst  of  anger  and  sorrow  on 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  291 

their  part,  th'ey  were  the  recipients  of  further  mental 
punishment  at  the  hands  of  my  captors,  one  of  whom 
threatened  my  mother  with  his  rifle  in  order  to  increase 
her  terror,  while  another  roughly  pushed  her  aside  whilst 
I  was  hustled  from  the  scene.  In  my  anguish  I  struck 
one  of  them,  but  they  soon  overpowered  me  and  dragged 
me  off. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  my  sufferings.  When  I 
arrived  at  the  Government  buildings  with  my  escort  I 
was  told  that  I  was  a  prisoner  of  war  and  was  about 
to  be  sent  away.  I  was,  however,  allowed  to  bid  good- 
bye to  my  mother  and  sister,  who  had  followed  me  there. 
Afterwards  I  was  carefully  searched,  permission  being 
refused  me  to  take  away  any  luggage  whatever.  From 
early  in  the  morning  until  ten  o'clock  at  night  I  was 
guarded  in  these  buildings ;  then,  a  number  of  other  pris- 
oners of  war  having  arrived,  we  were  all  taken  outside 
and  placed  upon  donkeys.  An  escort  surrounded  us, 
and  we  set  off  inland.  We  marched  away  along  a  route 
which,  fortunately,  was  already  well  known  to  me,  for 
as  a  tourist  in  the  happy  days  of  peace  I  had  traversed 
it  many  times  previously. 

At  three  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  arrived  at  an 
Arab  village,  where  we  rested  until  nine  o'clock,  when 
breakfast  was  served.  This  consisted  of  Arab  bread — 
prepared  in  a  couple  of  minutes  from  water,  flour,  and 
salt — and  a  small  piece  of  cheese.  The  inhabitants  of 
this  village  pelted  us  with  stones  and  subjected  us  to 
most  insulting  and  abusive  language. 

III~"I  WAS  TAKEN  PRISONER  TO  AN  ARAB 
HUT  AT  BEERSHEBA" 

After  breakfast  our  journey  was  continued  until  the 
afternoon,  when  we  halted  until  eight  o'clock.    Then 


292  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

we  started  off  again,  reaching  a  place  called  Ber  Sheba, 
or  Beersheba,  about  sixty  miles  from  Jaffa,  by  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  Here  we  were  all  separated,  and  I 
was  taken  to  an  Arab  hut  and  given  a  straw  mattress  to 
lie  on  and  a  filthy  blanket  to  cover  me.  The  same  meagre 
fare — native  bread  and  a  small  piece  of  cheese — was  again 
served  out  to  me,  and  I  was  left  alone.  After  spending 
two  days  and  nights  in  this  wretched  shelter  I  was  re- 
moved to  another,  which  I  fully  made  up  my  mind  was 
to  be  the  last  ere  I  attempted  my  escape,  which  I  was 
continually  thinking  about. 

The  stretch  of  ground  allotted  to  the  prisoners-of- 
war  camps  was  surrounded  by  a  barbed-wire  fence  some 
twelve  feet  high,  having  only  one  gateway.  The  camp 
consisted  of  about  twenty-five  huts,  the  bulk  of  these 
being  for  the  accommodation  of  the  prisoners,  and  the 
remainder  for  the  soldiers.  Posted  to  every  four  of 
these  buildings  was  a  guard  consisting  of  several  sen- 
tries, stationed  at  a  distance  of  from  twenty  to  thirty 
yards  from  the  buildings.  Every  Friday  it  was  the  cus- 
tom for  the  soldiers — who  were,  of  course,  Mohamme- 
dans— to  attend  the  mosque,  and  on  these  occasions 
but  few  sentries  were  left  to  guard  the  camp;  the  gate 
was  also  allowed  to  stand  open.  I  therefore  decided 
that,  when  I  had  worked  out  a  plan  of  escape,  I  would 
choose  a  Friday  on  which  to  attempt  it. 

In  the  camp  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  come  in  con- 
tact with  other  prisoners  of  war,  who  generously  gave 
me  some  of  their  money,  of  which  I  stood  in  great  need, 
for  I  knew  that  money  would  be  absolutely  necessary  to 
aid  my  escape.  After  a  short  time,  having  received 
various  small  amounts  in  this  way,  I  accumulated  quite 
a  useful  sum. 

Although  the  food  was  wretched  and  the  accommoda- 
tion miserable,  I  must  state  in  fairness  that  I  received 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  293 

much  kindness  from  different  Turkish  officers,  who, 
perceiving  that  I  was  sad  and  anxious,  had  compassion 
on  me  and  tried  to  console  me.  When  the  German  offi- 
cers, however,  with  their  renowned  kultur,  came  to  know 
this,'  they  became  enraged,  and  forbade  the  officers  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  me.  There  was  much  bad 
f eehng,  by  the  way,  between  the  Turks  and  the  Germans, 
because  while  the  latter  enjoyed  plenty  of  luxuries,  the 
former  entirely  lacked  them,  and  received  pay  which 
was  totally  inadequate  to  their  needs. 

About  this  time  many  wounded  soldiers  began  to  ar- 
rive at  Ber  Sheba  from  the  Egyptian  frontier,  where, 
it  was  very  evident,  there  was  "something  doing."  They 
were  conveyed  to  our  camp  in  large  baskets — each 
capable  of  holding  ten  wounded — slung  upon  the  backs 
of  camels.  On  arrival  at  the  village,  half  of  the  unfor- 
tunate occupants  were  usually  dead  or  dying  as  the  result 
of  the  shaking  and  jostling  occasioned  by  this  crude 
method  of  transport.  As  it  became  known  that  I  was  a 
medical  student,  my  services  were  utilized,  and  I  attended 
to  the  wounded  in  the  hospital.  One  might  have  thought 
^his  would  have  secured  me  better  treatment,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  was  brutally  ill-used,  somebody  whom 
I  had  offended  reporting  to  the  officer  commanding  that 
I  knocked  the  wounded  about !  This  ended  my  hospital 
career,  and  I  was  at  once  placed  under  arrest  and  con- 
fined to  my  hut  again.  The  food  provided  now  con- 
sisted of  rice,  meat,  and  bread,  all  served  together  in  a 
bowl.  This  latter  turned  out  to  be  the  bowl  of  fortune 
for  me,  for  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  make  an 
excellent  improvised  implement  for  removing  the  earth 
beneath  the  wall  of  my  hut,  thus  providing  me  with  a 
means  of  exit  when  the  time  came  for  my  "flitting." 


294  ^y  Escape  From  the  Turks 

IV— "MY  PLAN  TO  FLEE  OVER  SINAI  DESERT 
TO  SUEZ  CANAL" 

Night  and  day  I  brooded  over  the  problem  of  escape. 
My  original  idea  was  to  elude  the  vigilance  of  the  guards 
and  get  out  of  the  camp  through  its  solitary  gate,  open 
on  Fridays  only.  Once  outside,  I  intended  to  proceed 
to  Jafifa,  and  somehow  get  on  board  a  ship  there.  This 
plan,  however,  I  had  to  abandon,  for  a  newly-arrived 
prisoner  of  whom  I  made  inquiries  informed  me  that 
there  was  no  boat  available  at  that  port.  I  had,  there- 
fore, no  alternative  but  to  choose  the  crossing  of  the 
terrible  Sinai  Desert  to  the  Suez  Canal,  a  distance  of 
approximately  two  hundred  miles.  This  was  a  suffi- 
ciently formidable  undertaking,  but  even  though  I  risked 
dying  of  exhaustion  or  thirst  on  the  way  I  determined 
to  try  it,  if  I  got  the  chance,  sooner  than  endure  the 
misery  of  my  life  in  the  camp.  By  journeying  that  way 
I  thought  I  might  be  able  to  give  the  British  authorities 
in  Egypt  useful  information  concerning  the  Turks. 

It  was  obvious  to  me,  of  course,  that  I  could  not  hope 
to  cross  the  desert,  through  a  region  that  was  full  of 
Turkish  soldiers,  in  my  own  character — such  an  enter- 
prise would  have  been  sheer  madness.  I  decided,  after 
much  consideration,  that  my  best  plan  would  be  to  dis- 
guise myself  as  a  Bedouin  woman. 

Let  me  explain  exactly  why  I  chose  to  take  on  a  fe- 
male role — a  very  difficult  one  for  most  men  to  sustain. 
Before  the  war  I  had  impersonated  women  on  many 
occasions,  both  on  the  theatrical  stage  and  on  concert 
platforms  in  Russia  and  Turkey — where  I  appeared  un- 
der the  name  of  "Valia  Pavlov" — in  aid  of  charity.  For 
example,  although  I  had  only  seen  her  twice  in  France, 
I  quite  satisfactorily  impersonated  Mme.  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt.    I  can  successfully  imitate  a  woman  in  walking, 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  295 

speaking,  and  singing,  my  face,  figure  and  soprano  voice 
lending  themselves  admirably  for  these  purposes.  I 
knew,  moreover,  that  a  woman  would  be  less  suspected 
than  a  man,  would  not  be  closely  questioned,  and  would 
have  more  freedom.  In  other  words,  there  would  be 
less  chance  of  detection. 

Now  it  is  easy  enough  for  a  prisoner  to  decide  that 
he  will  escape  disguised  as  a  woman;  the  difficulty  is  to 
put  the  plan  into  execution.  But  I  knew  what  I  was 
about,  and  I  thought  I  saw  my  road  to  success,  though 
it  was  one  that  needed  careful  negotiation.  Every  day  I 
was  allowed  a  few  hours  for  exercise  outside  the  camp, 
escorted,  of  course,  by  my  own  particular  guard.  Hav- 
ing a  good  knowledge  of  Arabic,  I  had  the  opportunity, 
while  stretching  my  legs  in  this  way,  of  conversing  with 
the  Bedouins  who  dwelt  in  the  neighborhood.  The  sol- 
dier who  accompanied  me  was,  fortunately  for  me,  quite 
ignorant  of  the  language  of  these  people.  This  was  a 
real  stroke  of  good  fortune,  and  materially  helped  me  in 
laying  my  plans.  If  I  was  to  cross  the  desert  in  the 
guise  of  a  Bedouin  woman  I  should  need  the  assistance 
of  these  folk,  and  I  neglected  no  opportunity  of  making 
good  friends  of  them.  To  this  end  I  gave  them  small 
sums  of  money  from  time  to  time,  taking  care  not  to 
reveal  to  them  in  any  way  my  intentions,  for  my  knowl- 
edge of  their  character  led  me  to  believe  that,  should  I 
require  any  favor  of  them  later  on,  they  would  not 
refuse  it  to  me,  and  so  it  turned  out. 

After  a  lot  of  preparatory  work  of  this  kind — most 
of  it  done  under  the  very  nose  of  my  unsuspecting  guard 
— I  finally  selected  the  man  I  thought  could  be  relied 
upon  to  help  me.  He  never  for  a  moment  suspected  my 
intention  to  escape,  as  I  carefully  explained  to  him  that 
I  wanted  to  obtain  an  outfit  of  female  attire  to  enable 
me  to  make  a  journey  to  see  a  friend  of  mine  who  was 


296  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

a  prisoner  of  war  near  the  Suez  Canal.  He  swallowed 
my  story  in  its  entirety,  and  in  his  guileless  simplicity 
was  convinced  that  I  should  return  after  accomplishing 
my  errand.  He  arranged  to  supply  me,  when  I  notified 
him  that  I  was  ready,  with  a  complete  outfit  "borrowed" 
from  his  wife,  and  to  set  me  on  my  way  to  Suez. 

It  was  now  "up  to  me"  to  devise  a  means  of  getting 
out  of  my  hut  and  clear  of  the  camp.  I  have  already 
mentioned  my  possession  of  a  bowl,  with  which  I  in- 
tended to  dig  a  tunnel  under  the  side  of  my  hut.  Let 
me  now  describe  the  hut  itself,  in  order  that  my  position 
may  be  quite  clear. 

My  prison  was  constructed  of  wood  and  canvas,  the 
form  of  the  interior  being  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
that  of  a  bell-tent.  The  skin  was  of  canvas,  lined  with 
wood  clamped  together  with  stout  iron  strips.  There 
was  a  door  to  the  hut,  with  a  strong  lock,  in  which  the 
key  was  turned  upon  me  after  every  visit  from  my  guard 
— twice  to  three  times  daily.  Directly  I  had  fixed  things 
up  with  the  Bedouin  I  started  digging  my  tunnel.  Some- 
times the  sentry  disturbed  me  during  my  excavations, 
but  as  I  was  always  on  the  alert  his  approach,  followed 
by  the  click  of  the  key  in  the  lock,  gave  me  sufficient 
warning  to  fling  my  mattress  quickly  over  the  hole,  take 
my  seat  on  a  box,  and  look  up  calmly  when  he  entered, 
thus  avoiding  rousing  his  suspicions.  There  was  little 
danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  outside,  owing  to 
the  great  height  of  the  grass  and  weeds  which  grew  all 
around  the  hut.  Scraping  laboriously  with  my  precious 
bowl,  distributing  the  scooped-up  material  carefully  over 
the  earthern  floor  of  the  hut  so  as  not  to  attract  atten- 
tion, and  on  the  qui  vive  night  and  day,  I  worked  at  my 
burrow  for  three  whole  days.  The  tension  I  underwent 
during  this  period,  and  the  constant  anxiety  that  tor- 
tured me,  are  quite  indescribable.     I  worked  like  a  fiend : 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  297 

I  had  fully  determined  that  I  would  not  remain  in  the 
camp  any  longer  even  though  death  waited  for  me 
outside. 

V— "I  MAKE  MY  ESCAPE  DISGUISED  AS  A 
BEDOUIN  WOMAN" 

My  tunnel  being  completed,  I  fixed  the  hour  of  depar- 
ture with  my  Bedouin  friend,  arranging  for  him  to  be 
waiting  at  a  specified  spot  about  two  hundred  yards 
away.  The  time  appointed  was  in  the  dead  of  night — 
at  12.30  a.  m.,  to  be  exact — and  as  the  hour  approached 
I  worked  myself  into  a  feverish  state  of  excitement.  I 
became  terribly  nervous,  thinking  of  the  risk  I  was  about 
to  take  and  the  journey  that  awaited  me  if  I  got  free. 
I  realized,  almost  for  the  first  time,  the  manifold  diffi- 
culties of  my  enterprise,  and  I  told  myself  I  was  only 
going  to  my  doom.  Then,  as  the  hands  of  my  watch 
moved  steadily  onward,  the  reaction  came,  and  I  grew 
calm  and  confident.  Courage  was  needed  to  make  this 
dash  for  freedom — well,  I  would  show  courage.  The 
moment  for  action  came,  and  swiftly  I  removed  the 
mattress  that  had  hitherto  concealed  my  secret  passage, 
put  my  head  through  the  aperture,  and  peeped  out  to 
survey  my  surroundings. 

So  terrible  was  the  tension  at  that  moment  that  the 
very  grasses  which  waved  in  the  faint  night  breeze  and 
the  leaves  that  rustled  in  the  trees  caused  me  to  start 
as  though  my  plans  had  been  discovered ;  I  saw  myself, 
in  my  mind's  eye,  thrown  back  into  my  cage  and  sub- 
jected to  all  the  humiliating  punishments  and  sufferings 
that  would  inevitably  have  followed.  So  much  was  I 
overcome  by  my  feelings  at  this  moment  that  I  wept 
for  very  fear,  and,  kneeling  down,  prayed  fervently  to 
my  Maker  to  give  me  back  the  courage  which  I  felt 


298  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

was  leaving  me  and  restore  the  strength  of  mind  and 
body  that  alone  could  see  me  safely  through  that  never- 
to-be-forgotten  ordeal. 

When  the  nerve-storm  passed  I  quietly  emerged  from 
my  hiding  place  and  crept  silently  away  through  the 
grass,  making  for  the  point  where  I  was  to  meet  my 
Bedouin  Good  Samaritan.  I  passed  through  the  open 
gateway  in  the  fence  without  accident,  and  arrived  at 
the  rendezvous  quite  breathless.  Thank  Heaven!  My 
friend  was  there,  and  to  my  surprise  and  joy  he  had  se- 
cured for  me  a  camel,  upon  which  I  was  to  continue  my 
flight. 

My  joy  at  this  first  success  is  indescribable.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost,  however,  so  I  speedily  divested 
myself  of  my  prison  attire,  which,  upon  the  advice  of 
my  Bedouin  friend,  I  carefully  buried.  I  then  dressed 
myself  with  all  possible  haste  in  the  disguise  my  friend 
had  procured  for  me. 

This  consisted  of  a  Bedouin  dress  of  some  blue-col- 
ored stufif  with  white  spots,  and  resembled  an  overall 
or  woman's  nightgown,  secured  around  the  waist  with 
a  red  sash.  The  head-dress  was  a  small  loose-fitting 
green  bonnet,  which  had  stitched  to  it  a  cheap  black 
cotton  substitute  for  woman's  hair.  Suspended  from  my 
ears  were  large  brown  polished  wooden  earrings  and  drop- 
pers, and  over  all  I  threw  loosely  a  large  piece  of  thin 
black  veiling,  resembling  a  shawl,  which  covered  the 
whole  of  my  head,  face,  and  figure,  leaving  only  my  eyes 
showing.  My  feet  were  left  quite  bare.  No  facial 
make-up  was  necessary,  my  skin  being  smooth  and  quite 
as  brown  as  any  Bedouin's.  Being  thoroughly  familiar, 
from  my  various  impersonations,  with  the  adjustment 
of  a  woman's  dress,  I  was  able  without  difficulty  to  put 
this  costume  on  in  the  dark,  and  I  was  greatly  helped 
by  the  fact  that  before  the  war  my  parents  had  employed 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  299 

a  Bedouin  servant  whose  dresses   I  had  worn  on  the 
occasion  of  various  carnivals. 

The  problem  of  shaving  had  already  occurred  to  me, 
and  fortunately  for  my  purpose,  a  very  simple  solution 
was  available.  I  obtained  some  powder  which,  after 
being  mixed  with  water  and  applied  to  the  face,  com- 
pletely destroys  the  hair  for  the  time  being.  This  depila- 
tory is  in  common  use  amongst  the  Bedouins,  Arabs,  and 
Turks  for  the  removal  of  hair,  whether  from  the  body 
or  face.  My  toilet  being  completed,  I  rose  to  my  feet 
—looking  to  all  appearance  a  typical  Bedouin  woman— 
and  the  pair  of  us  mounted  the  camel  and  rode  steadily 
on  for  fifteen  hours  to  a  place  called  Wad-el-Arish.  Our 
rations  during  that  long,  weary  journey  consisted  of 
onions,  bread,  and  a  few  dates. 

Upon  arrival  at  Wad-el-Arish  my  good  friend  and  I 
parted  company,  for  he  feared  to  accompany  me  farther 
lest  he  should  run  into  danger,  as  there  would  be  great 
risk  for  him  in  passing  that  way  by  reason  of  the  troops 
journeying  in  the  same  direction.  I  used  all  my  powers 
of  persuasion  to  induce  him  to  continue  with  me,  assur- 
ing him  optimistically  that  no  harm  would  come  to  him, 
but  despite  all  my  efforts  to  allay  his  fears,  he  declined. 
Ere  we  parted,  he  bestowed  on  me  such  good  things  as 
he  was  able  to  spare  for  my  comfort  and  sustenance 
during  my  travels,  giving  me  a  flask  of  water,  dry  bread, 
and  dates.  Then,  after  a  hearty  farewell,  he  retraced 
his  steps,  riding  the  camel,  while  I  continued  alone  on 
foot,  following  the  track  left  by  the  troops  who  were 
journeying  across  the  desert. 

VI— "I  MEET  A  PACK  OF  HUNGRY  JACICALS  IN 
THE  DESERT" 

My  first  day  in  the  desert  was  a  hot  and  tiring  one, 
but  in  spite  of  the  discomfort  I  continued  to  walk  on 


300  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

until  the  evening,  never  losing  sight  of  the  soldiers  and 
camels  far  ahead.  When  darkness  fell  I  settled  down 
on  the  sand  for  the  night  with  only  a  dirty  blanket  for 
my  covering,  the  desert  for  my  bed,  and  the  heavens  to 
shelter  me. 

With  the  coming  of  dawn  I  was  on  my  way  again. 
The  second  and  third  days,  being  uneventful,  call  for  no 
description ;  but  I  recollect  that,  on  the  fourth  day,  I  was 
accosted  by  several  Turkish  patrols,  who  endeavored  to 
question  me.  A  happy  thought  struck  me,  and  I  kept 
silent,  simply  motioning  to  them  with  my  fingers,  giving 
them  the  impression  that  I  was  deaf  and  dumb,  and 
therefore  an  object  of  pity.  I  knew  only  too  well  the 
nature  of  these  Mohammedans — fanatical  in  the  extreme, 
pitying  only  the  afflicted  and  maimed  of  their  own  caste. 
Had  I  been  a  real  woman,  I  should  have  been  terribly 
afraid  of  some  of  these  ruffianly  fellows,  but  as  it  was  I 
feared  nothing  but  discovery,  and  my  pretence  of  being 
deaf  and  dumb  gave  me  excellent  protection. 

When  one  or  two  of  them  seemed  inclined  to  interfere 
with  me,  their  comrades,  pitying  me,  shouted  angrily: 
"Haram,  haram !  For  the  love  of  God,  don't  touch  her." 
With  that  they  left  me,  and  very  thankfully  I  went  on 
my  way. 

By  the  fifth  day  my  slender  stock  of  provisions  was 
running  low,  only  a  few  dates  and  a  little  bread  remain- 
ing, but  my  good  luck  seemed  destined  to  continue,  for 
I  met  with  hospitality  from  some  of  the  soldiers  I  en- 
countered, who  gave  me  bread,  dates,  and  water.  About 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  sixth  day  a  terrible 
wind  arose,  and  the  sandstorm  which  followed  nearly 
blinded  and  choked  me.  I  could  do  nothing  but  crouch 
down  and  cover  myself  with  my  blanket  as  best  I  could, 
remaining  in  that  position  until  ten  o'clock  at  night,  when 
the  wind  ceased.     I  continued  my  journey  during  the 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  301 

night  so  as  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  to  my  horror 
was  met  by  a  pack  of  prowling  jackals.  These  beasts, 
when  hungry,  are  dangerous  to  the  solitary  traveller, 
and  my  alarm  can  well  be  imagined ;  but  curiously  enough 
the  fear  was  reciprocal,  and  the  skulking  brutes  disap- 
peared. 

On  the  seventh  day  of  my  interminable  journey  i  met 
an  old  Bedouin  riding  on  a  camel,  and  was  not  long  in 
fraternizing  with  him.  After  paying  him  the  customary 
compliments— not  forgetting  a  little  money,  that  magic 
key  to  the  Bedouin  heart— I  travelled  with  him  for  five 
days,  the  pair  of  us  riding  together  on  his  camel.  This 
event  I  think,  appealed  to  my  sense  of  humor  more  than 
any  cither  incident  of  my  escape.  For  five  whole  days 
and  nights  we  were  in  each  other's  company— yet  the 
simple  old  fellow  never  discovered  or  even  suspected 
my  secret.  To  him  I  was  just  simply  a  woman  of  his 
own  race.  He  treated  me  with  respect,  and,  in  his  Be- 
douin way,  even  showed  me  kindness.  I  laugh  now 
when  I  think  about  it,  and  how  startled  he  would  have 
been  to  learn  the  truth.  He  left  me  at  the  end  of  the 
fifth  day,  at  a  point  where  our  routes  diverged,  and 
once  more  I  went  on  alone  on  foot. 

On  the  twelfth  day  of  my  journey  across  the  desert, 
what  with  the  hardship  and  the  poor  food,  I  began  to  get 
exhausted.  I  felt  feverish  and  deadly  tired,  but  realized 
that  I  must  not  give  way,  and,  remembering  how  fortune 
had  favored  me  hitherto,  I  determined  to  press  forward 
and  reach  the  Canal  as  speedily  as  possible.  I  was  plod- 
ding doggedly  on,  a  few  hours  later,  when  I  sighted  a 
party  of  mounted  gendarmes  approaching,  and  the 
thought  instantly  flashed  through  my  mind  that  I  was 
being  chased;  they  would  take  me  prisoner  again,  and 
drag  me  back  to  be  punished.  The  idea  filled  me  with 
terror,  but  I  managed  to  evade  them  by  concealing  my- 


302  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

self  behind  a  hillock  of  sand,  where  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion and  nerve-strain  I  fell  fast  asleep. 

The  thirteenth  morning  of  my  trip  had  dawned  when 
I  awoke,  and  I  knew  that  the  journey  was  nearing  its 
end.  This  was  well  for  me,  for  I  was  beginning  to 
run  short  of  food  again,  having  only  a  little  bread  and 
a  few  dates  left,  so  I  ate  sparingly  lest  my  stock  should 
become  exhausted  ere  I  reached  my  next  resting-place. 

Towards  the  close  of  my  wanderings  that  day  luck 
again  befriended  me,  for  I  chanced  to  meet  a  party  of 
Bedouins  encamped  in  the  desert,  and  they  provided  me 
with  the  now  familiar  fare  of  onions,  salt,  water,  and 
bread.  Like  the  Turks,  they  had  not  the  slightest  sus- 
picion that  I  was  other  than  I  seemed. 

From  these  people  I  learned  definitely  that  my  jour- 
ney was  nearing  completion ;  only  one  and  half  day's 
travel  was  needed,  and  it  would  be  ended.  My  anxiety 
seemed  to  increase  during  these  last  hours  of  my  pil- 
grimage, and  many  a  time  I  almost  succumbed  from 
weakness,  but  I  forced  myself  to  continue. 

At  last,  to  my  joy,  I  perceived  signs  of  some  sort  of 
civilization  in  the  distance — tents,  soldiers,  and  all  the 
miscellaneous  equipment  of  a  Turkish  army  and  its  in- 
numerable camp-followers.  I  trudged  on  and  on  through 
this  concourse,  quite  unchallenged — who  would  bother 
about  a  poor  deaf-mute  Bedouin  woman? — and  even- 
tually arrived  near  the  Canal.  How  excited  I  was  at 
sight  of  it !  How  I  longed  to  be  on  the  other  side !  On 
the  opposite  shore  I  could  see  soldiers,  but  I  was  too 
far  away  to  distinguish  what  troops  they  were. 

VII— "TURKISH  HORSEMEN  FORCE  ME  BACK 
ACROSS  THE  DESERT" 

On  approaching  nearer  to  the  Canal  I  came  to  a  place 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  303 

opposite  El  Kantara,  where  some  English  soldiers  on  the 
farther  bank  pointed  their  rifles  at  me  and  forced  me  to 
stop.  Away  behind  me,  at  the  top  of  a  slope,  were  some 
Turkish  patrols  on  horseback,  and  to  my  dismay  I  saw 
that  they  were  watching  me  closely.  I  had  hoped  to  get 
near  enough  to  the  British  to  open  up  communication  with 
them,  but  this  now  seemed  out  of  the  question ;  directly 
I  made  a  move  in  that  direction  the  horsemen  would 
swoop  down  upon  me. 

Evidently  I  should  have  to  wait  for  a  better  chance, 
so  with  a  sinking  heart  I  walked  towards  the  Turks, 
thinking  that  by  adopting  an  indiiferent  attitude  I  could 
dispel  any  suspicions  I  might  have  aroused.  I  sat  down 
as  they  approached  me,  and  v/hen  questioned  by  them 
explained  that  I  was  a  Bedouin  woman  going  to  Egypt. 
(I  thought  it  advisable  on  this  occasion  not  to  keep  up 
my  pretence  of  being  deaf  and  dumb.)  T«hey  told  me 
roughly  that  this  was  impossible;  there  was  a  war  on, 
and  Egypt  was  closed  to  strangers. 

Then  came  the  bombshell;  they  ordered  me  to  return 
whence  I  came,  and,  to  make  my  departure  certain,  con- 
ducted me  away  from  the  camps  and  told  me  not  to  let 
them  see  me  wandering  about  again. 

I  do  not  like  to  dwell  upon  my  feelings  at  that  awful 
moment.  Here  had  I  risked  my  life  to  escape,  and  spent 
many  wear>%  anxious  days  in  crossing  the  desert,  only  to 
be  turned  back  when  actually  in  sight  of  my  goal,  and 
almost  within  hail  of  British  soldiers!  It  was  heart- 
breaking, maddening.  I  could  hardly  control  myself  as 
I  went  slowly  back  into  the  desert,  and  I  dared  not  think 
of  what  lay  in  store  for  me.  I  might  perish  miserably 
in  the  sand-wastes,  or  I  might  stagger  on  till  I  fell  once 
more  into  the  hands  of  my  late  keepers,  who  would  pun- 
ish me  savagely  for  my  abortive  escape. 

There  is  a  bright  lining  to  the  darkest  cloud,  however, 


304  My  Escape  From  the  Turks 

and  so  I  discovered.  I  had  not  proceeded  very  far  on 
my  return  journey  when  I  came  across  a  party  of  Be- 
douins who,  as  luck  would  have  it,  were  travelling  in  the 
same  direction.  I  promptly  made  friends  with  them,  and 
for  a  small  sum  of  money  they  allowed  me  to  ride  on 
camel-back  with  their  wives,  the  journey  to  Ber  Sheba 
taking  about  six  days.  Never  once  did  any  of  them  sus- 
pect me.  Undoubtedly  my  disguise  was  well-nigh  perfect, 
but  it  must  also  be  remembered  that  the  Bedouins  are 
a  simple  people,  and  the  reverse  of  cultured,  so  that  my 
task  was  tolerably  easy. 

Arrived  at  Ber  Sheba  once  again,  I  bade  good-bye  to 
my  new  friends  and  sought  out  my  old  Bedouin  acquain- 
tance at  the  place  where  he  lived.  He  was  amazed  to 
see  me  back  so  soon,  and  told  me  that  the  Turkish  au- 
thorities had  been  greatly  perturbed  over  my  escape,  and 
were  still  searching  for  me.  It  would  be  unsafe  to  re- 
main, he  told  me,  so  I  only  stopped  with  him  a  very 
short  time. 

It  was  obvious  to  me  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  try 
the  desert  route  again,  so  I  evolved  a  new  plan.  Leaving 
Ber  Sheba,  I  made  for  a  place  called  Gaza,  some  thirty 
miles  away,  proceeding  immediately  after  to  Jaffa,  where 
I  managed  to  exchange  my  Bedouin  dress  for  that  of  a 
European  lady.  I  should  here  explain  that  I  have  found 
it  necessary  at  several  points  in  m.y  story  not  to  go 
into  details,  and  I  must  also  suppress  the  names  of  the 
kind  friends  who  provided  me  with  the  disguise.  Sundry 
good  people  who  helped  me  are  still  in  Palestine,  and 
it  might  go  hard  with  them  if  I  gave  any  clue  to  their 
identity. 

VIII— THE  RESCUE-ON  AN  ITALIAN  STEAMER 
TO  EGYPT 

When  I  reached  Jaffa  the  Italian  steamer  Catania  had 


My  Escape  From  the  Turks  305 

just  arrived  at  the  port,  and  I  promptly  embarked  upon 
her,  despite  the  strict  scrutiny  of  a  German  female  Cus- 
toms official.  She  looked  over  all  the  women  who  board- 
ed the  steamer,  but  she  never  dreamed  for  one  moment 
that  I  was  a  disguised  man,  and  I  passed  on  to  the  boat 
without  question. 

On  the  voyage  I  made  friends  with  a  lady  refugee, 
and,  finding  that  she  was  to  be  trusted,  confided  my 
secret  to  her.  This  good  woman  helped  me  out  of  my 
last  difficulty  by  lending  me  a  suit  belonging  to  her  hus- 
band, to  don  directly  I  landed  in  Egypt.  Oh !  the  delight 
of  once  more  resuming  a  man's  attire  and  a  man's  ways 
of  Hfe! 

Arrived  in  Egypt,  and  once  more  in  my  own  proper 
person,  I  visited  the  British  military  authorities  at  Alex- 
andria, who  referred  me  to  No.  5  Indian  General  Hos- 
pital at  St.  Stephano.  Here,  being  a  medical  student,  I 
secured  employment  and  remained  for  some  time  doing 
Red  Cross  work  under  Colonel  Pridmore,  the  officer 
commanding  that  institution,  to  whom,  and  to  Mrs.  Prid- 
more, I  am  much  indebted  for  many  kindnesses.  Later 
I  went  to  No.  2  Australian  General  Hospital  at  Cairo. 
Subsequently  I  was  transferred,  at  my  own  request,  to 
London,  where  I  enlisted  in  the  Army  Service  Corps  and 
became  a  British  soldier.  Since  then  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  appearing  before  many  thousands  of  my 
soldier  comrades  as  a  female  impersonator,  amusing  them 
with  my  songs  and  the  story  of  my  adventures. 

It  is  one  thing  to  act  the  part  of  a  woman  for  the  sake 
of  amusement ;  it  is  quite  another  to  do  it  in  an  attempt 
to  secure  one's  liberty,  with  death  as  the  price  ^of  dis- 
covery. 


TALES  OF  GERMAN  AIR  RAIDERS 
OVER  LONDON  AND  PARIS 

"How  We  Drop  Bombs  on  the  Enemies'  Cities'' 

Told  hy  the  Air  Raiders  Themselves 

The  first  stirring  sensations  of  the  Great  War,  which  aroused 
the  imaginations  of  the  people,  were  the  sailing  of  the  fleets  of 
ships  in  the  air  and  under  the  seas.  The  world  was  indeed 
startled  when  the  squadrons  of  Zeppelins  rose  from  Germany, 
crossed  the  seas,  and  hovered  over  England,  dropping  bombs 
on  ports  and  cities,  and  hurling  death  from  the  clouds.  Here 
are  two  stories  of  German  raiders  in  which  they  tell  how  it  feels 
to  drop  bombs  from  the  skies  on  European  capitals.  The  Ger- 
man authorities  permitted  the  publication  in  a  Hamburg  news- 
paper of  a  very  exciting  and  detailed  account  of  a  Zeppelin  raid 
upon  London  by  one  of  the  crew  of  the  airship.  This  account 
was  designed  to  arouse  the  enthusiasm  of  the  German  nation  for 
the  daring  and  difficult  work  done  by  the  Zeppelins,  and  to  make 
them  realize  the  havoc  and  terror  they  created  in  England.  A 
translation  of  the  narrative  follows : 

I— "HOW  WE  2EPPELINED  THE  HEART  OF 
LONDON" 

Told  hy  Commander  of  a  German  Air  Fleet 

Our  Zeppelin  received  orders  at  6  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning to  fly  from  our  hangar  in  Belgium  for  an  attack  on 
London. 

The  giant  airship  slipped  easily  out  of  the  long  shed 
with  noiseless  motors,  and  after  rising  to  8,000  feet,  the 
altitude  most  suited  for  steady  flying,  our  captain  steered 
by  compass  straight  for  London. 

306 


Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders  307 

Our  true  German  hearts  beat  high  this  night  with  the 
hope  of  doing  some  great  and  irreparable  damage  to 
London.  ... 

Perhaps  we  should  destroy  their  House  of  Parliament 
...  or  their  War  Office  ...  or  the  Foreign  Office  .  .  . 
or  the  official  dwellings  of  the  Prime  Minister  and  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  .  .  .  Well  did  I  know  the 
location  of  all  these  places  from  my  long  residence  in 
London. 

Our  commander  said  that  a  bomb  dropped  in  a  certain 
space  of  half  a  square  mile  in  London  could  hardly  fail 
to  destroy  some  person  of  great  importance  in  the  official , 
or  wealthy  classes  of  England. 

Perhaps  we  might  strike  a  school  or  a  hospital  or  a 
party  of  women.  We  should  regret  such  accidents,  but 
it  is  impossible  to  modify  our  splendid  and  effective 
aerial  warfare  simply  because  innocent  combatants  place 
themselves  in  the  way  of  legitimate  objects  of  attack.  .  .  . 
We  know  that  London  is  a  fortified  city,  and  non-com- 
batants who  remain  there  do  so  at  their  own  peril. 

The  way  had  for  months  been  prepared  by  previous 
aerial  attacks  and  reconnoissances  for  a  more  accurate 
and  effective  blow  at  the  heart  of  London.  All  lights, 
both  street  lamps  and  those  in  dwellings,  have  been  low- 
ered by  order  of  the  English  Government  to  a  point  that 
causes  the  busiest  thoroughfare  at  night  to  present  only  a 
dull  glow  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 

On  the  other  hand,  powerful  searchlights  operated  in 
connection  with  anti-aircraft  guns,  and  other  military 
works  are  kept  constantly  playing  on  the  sky  in  the  search 
for  our  airships.  If  we  can  discover  the  topographical 
position  of  these  searchlights  and  batteries  we  can  estab- 
lish the  other  principal  centres  of  the  city  from  them  and 
throw  our  bombs  with  some  approach  to  accuracy— that 
is  to  say,  we  can  at  least  drop  them  on  a  quarter  where 


308  Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders 

we  know  that  there  are  public  buildings  or  where  im- 
portant officials  reside. 

To  establish  the  location  of  these  points  has  been  the 
work  of  our  earlier  air  reconnoissances,  and  as  a  result 
of  this  system  our  work  must  become  more  and  more 
deadly  every  day.  We  have,  for  instance,  found  that 
powerful  searchlights  and  batteries  are  operated  at  Wool- 
wich on  the  extreme  eastern  outskirts  of  London,  at  St. 
James's  Park,  which  is  in  the  centre  of  the  metropolis,  at 
Hampstead  Heath  on  the  north,  and  at  the  Crystal 
Palace,  south  of  the  Thames.  The  English  are  not  likely 
to  move  all  these  defensive  points,  and  if  one  is  moved 
and  not  the  others,  the  captain  of  the  Zeppelin  can  dis- 
cover the  change  by  reference  to  the  other  points. 

As  our  Zeppelin  can  travel  seventy  miles  an  hour  at 
its  maximum,  the  journey  of  a  little  more  than  two  hun- 
dred miles  from  Belgium  could  be  performed  in  a  few 
hours.  Darkness  was  falling  as  we  passed  over  the 
stormy  North  Sea  for  we  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  and 
reported  by  patrol  ships. 

The  cold  was  intense  and  could  be  felt  through  the 
fleece-lined  clothes  and  heavy  felt  shoes  with  which  we 
were  provided.  Our  Zeppelin  carried  four  tons  of  the 
most  destructive  explosives  ever  created  by  science — 
sufficient  to  annihilate  the  heart  of  London,  the  greatest 
city  in  the  world.  The  amount  was  divided  into  forty 
bombs  of  ICO  pounds  each,  and  eighty  of  fifty  pounds 
each.  The  larger  bombs  are  designed  to  destroy  fortifica- 
tions and  heavy  buildings.  The  smaller  ones  are  for  the 
purpose  of  setting  fire  to  houses,  and  contain  an  explosive 
that  develops  a  temperature  of  5,000  degrees  Fahrenheit. 

We  made  out  the  mouth  of  the  Thames  from  certain 
lightships  and  shore  lights  that  have  been  maintained.  At 
about  10  o'clock  we  found  a  powerful  searchlight  play- 
ing on  us.     This  we  knew  from  our  information  to  be 


Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders  309 

Woolwich,  the  important  English  arsenal.  As  we  no 
longer  desired  to  conceal  our  presence,  we  discharged  ten 
of  the  larger  bombs  in  the  vicinity  of  the  searchlight. 

The  bombs  are  discharged  from  tubes  pointing  down- 
ward  from  a  steel  plate  in  the  floor  of  the  airship.  The 
bomb  is  furnished  with  a  steel  handle,  and  by  means  of 
this  it  is  lowered  into  the  tube.  A  bolt  fitting  into  a  hole 
in  the  bomb  holds  it  in  the  tube.  The  marksman  presses 
his  foot  on  an  electric  button  in  the  plate  in  the  floor  of 
the  car  and  this  withdraws  the  bolt,  releasing  the  bombs. 
He  can  drop  two  bombs  at  once  if  he  wishes,  and  the 
third  two  seconds  later. 

The  height  at  which  the  airship  flies,  its  speed  and  the 
effects  of  wind  at  present  render  impossible  scientific  aim 
in  the  sense  that  an  artillerist  would  use  the  term.  Never- 
theless a  considerable  degree  of  effectiveness  is  attained 
by  Zeppelin  marksmen,  while  a  poor  marksman  may 
entirely  waste  his  ammunition.  To  hit  a  mark  half  an 
acre  in  extent  is  good  marksmanship  from  a  Zeppelin. 
In  practice  a  regiment  of  wooden  dummies  was  set  up 
in  a  field  and  one  of  our  aerial  marksmen  succeeded  in 
wiping  out  the  whole  regiment. 

If  Zeppelin  marksmanship  is  still  rudimentary,  the 
destructive  power  of  our  bombs,  on  the  other  hand,  is  ter- 
rible beyond  anything  dreamed  of  before  this  war.  One 
of  our  100-pound  bombs  striking  fairly  will  destroy  any 
existing  building  not  constructed  purely  as  a  fortification. 
Even  if  it  strikes  in  a  street,  it  will  dig  a  hole  a  hundred 
feet  deep,  destroying  gas  pipes,  electric  wire  conduits, 
subways  and  any  subterranean  constructions  that  may  be 
beneath  the  surface.  Thus  the  destruction  and  para- 
lyzing of  all  life  in  a  city  can  be  practically  assured  if  we 
use  sufficient  bombs.  Our  bombardment  of  Woolwich 
was  followed  by  the  extinction  of  the  searchlight,  and 


3IO  Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders 

we  had  reason  to  believe  that  we  had  inflicted  serious 
damage  at  this  important  centre. 

We  knew  that  in  a  few  minutes  we  should  be  over 
the  heart  of  London.  Our  daring  commander  decided  to 
sail  very  low,  following  the  course  of  the  Thames  which 
he  knew  would  take  him  near  all  the  objects  he  wished  to 
reach. 

Suddenly  the  huge  outline  of  a  building  loomed  under 
our  noses.  Seen  against  the  dull,  cloudy  sky,  it  appeared 
colossal.  We  almost  struck  it.  It  was  a  church!  It 
was  St.  Paul's  Cathedral !  An  instantaneous  turn  of  the 
elevating  rudder  saved  us  from  a  collision  with  the  mon- 
strous dome.  A  few  seconds  more  straight  to  the  west- 
ward and  we  knew  that  we  were  over  the  centre  of 
ofificial  and  fashionable  London. 

Our  commander  ordered  the  bombs  discharged  as  fast 
as  we  could  throw  them.  The  ship  circled  slowly  round 
and  round,  peppering  death  on  the  solar  plexus  of  the 
British  Empire. 

Beneath  us  was  the  Strand,  with  its  theatres  and  ho- 
tels, the  House  of  Parliament,  the  Government  offices  in 
Whitehall  and  Parliament  street,  the  residences  of  the 
aristocracy  in  Mayfair,  the  fashionable  clubs  in  Pall  Mall, 
Buckingham  Palace,  the  War  Office,  the  Admiralty  and 
Westminster  Abbey. 

It  was  a  night  of  terror  for  London !  The  searchlights 
and  the  guns  played  upon  us  constantly.  At  night  the 
anti-aircraft  fighters  use  shells  that  spread  a  long  trail  of 
luminous  red  smoke  through  the  darkness  in  order  to 
mark  the  position  of  the  airship  for  the  other  gunners 
firing  shrapnel.  It  was  a  grand  and  inconceivably  weird 
spectacle  to  watch  the  electric  beams  and  the  long  red 
trails  playing  about  in  the  air,  while  shrapnel  burst  about 
us  and  our  great  bombs  exploded  on  the  earth  below 
with  a  glow  that  we  could  faintly  discern. 


Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders  3" 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  for  a  gunner  to  hit  an  airship 
at  a  height  of  8000  feet,  or  even  lower.  We  enjoyed  a 
feeling  of  tremendous  power  and  security.  Our  daring 
cornnfander  ordered  our  craft  to  circle  lower  and  lower 
in  te  determination  to  inflict  the  greatest  possible  injury 

°"IflasT we' could  see  the  outlines  of  buildings  on  the 
ground.  Below  us  was  a  great  open  square  and  in  the 
centre  a  very  high  slender  column.  It  was  the  .  .  . 
Bntish  monument  to  their  noted  Admiral  Nelson  stand- 
ingin  the  centre  of  Trafalgar  Square. 

"Give  old  Nelson  a  bomb!"  roared  our  brave  com- 

""  Down  went  a  bomb  aimed  straight  at  the  head  of  the 
one-eyed  admiral.  The  fervent  wishes  of  every  rnan  in 
our  crew  went  with  it.    Whether  it  struck  the  mark  time 

alone  will  show.  .„.oU,r 

We  had  ventured  too  near  the  earth,  and  an  unusually 
well-aimed  shot  struck  the  forward  part  of  our  vessel. 
One  of  our  mechanical  experts,  in  his  anxiety  to  ascer- 
tain the  nature  of  the  damage,  climbed  out  on  a  stay,  fell 
and  was,  of  course,  lost.  That  was  our  only  casualty 
We  found  later  that  the  shot  had  only  penetrated  one 
"ballonnet"  and  had  not  interfered  with  our  stability  in 
any  important  degree.  ,,       ^    tu.v 

Our  commander  threw  the  elevating  rudders  to  their 
extreme  upward  angle,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were 
practically  out  of  danger  once  more^  We  threw  all  our 
supply  of  bombs  upon  London  and  then  turned  for  home 
again  Steering  by  compass  and  the  stars  fo^  Belgium, 
we  made  the  return  journey  without  mishap.  The  dawn 
was  just  breaking  when  we  came  in  sight  of  certain 
landmarks  which  guided  us  to  our  hangar 

There  are  certain  details  of  the  raid  which  I  should  not 
wish  to  reveal,  and  could  not  reveal  without  making 


312  Talcs  of  German  Air  Raiders 

myself  liable  to  the  death  penalty.  An  attack  by  a  Zep- 
pelin is  always  accompanied  by  other  air  craft,  both 
dirigibles  and  aeroplanes,  in  order  to  give  protection  to 
our  capital  airships  and  create  confusion  among  the 
enemy.  The  English  never  know  whether  they  are  firing 
at  a  Zeppelin  or  a  semi-rigid  dirigible  of  similar  shape, 
but  comparatively  small  importance.  These  are  the  scout- 
mg  cruisers  of  the  air.  Moreover  our  raiding  forces 
split  up  in  the  darkness  according  to  pre-arranged  plans, 
thus  causing  hopeless  confusion  among  our  terrestrial 
opponents,  even  if  the  approaching  attack  has  been  re- 
ported to  them  in  advance. 

II-HOW  IT  FEELS  TO  DROP  BOMBS  ON  PARIS 

Told  by  a  Young  German  Aeronaut  in  a  Letter  to  His 
Mother 

Dear  Mother: 

Thank  God !  After  a  veritable  Odyssy,  to-day  at  noon 
I  again  reached  my  division.  With  much  joy  I  was 
greeted  on  all  sides,  for,  after  a  four  days'  absence  I 
was  given  up  for  lost.  Dear  little  mother,  I  shall  tell 
you  the  story  from  the  beginning.     During  the  forenoon 

I  went  up  at  D for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  the 

enemy's  position  at  L and  F ,  and  to  take  note«= 

on  their  movements.    Ober-Lieutenant  K went  alon^r 

as  observer,  and  my  biplane  soon  carried  us  to  a  heigh't 
of  about  800  metres  above  the  enemy's  position,  which 
was  sketched  and  photographed  time  and  again.  As  ex- 
pected, we  were  soon  the  object  of  a  lively  firing  and 
several  times  I  felt  a  well-known  trembling  in  the'  ma- 
chine—a  sign  that  a  shot  had  hit  one  of  the  wings.  After 
a  three-hour  flight  we  were  able  to  give  our  reports  to 
General    Herringen    at    headquarters.      He    praised    us 


Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders  313 

warmly  and  ordered  that  we  be  served  a  roast  chicken 
and  he  gave  us  some  fine  Havana  cigars. 

As  I  was  again  preparing  my  aeroplane  in  the  after- 
noon, with  the  help  of  several  chauffeurs,  who  filled  the 
benzine  tank,  and  as  I  was  patching  the  four  bullet  holes 
with  linen,  a  Bavarian  officer  told  me  that  he  would  like 
to  observe  the  retreat  of  the  English  from  the  large  pike 

toward  M .    I  prepared  my  machine  immediately,  and 

around  4  o'clock,  with  Major  G ,  I  went  up.     By 

following  the  streets  it  was  soon  evident  that  the  English 
retreat  was  without  plan  or  order,  but  to  all  appearances 
the  troops  wanted  to  reach  fortified  positions  as  fast  as 
they  could.    Perhaps  they  would  flee  all  the  way  to  Paris. 

Paris!  The  Bavarian  officer  shrieking  something  to 
me.  Though  the  motor  almost  drowned,  I  understood 
what  he  meant.  I  glanced  at  the  benzine  indicator.  I 
possessed  sufficient  oil.    Paris  it  would  be ! 

Steering  toward  the  south,  we  journeyed  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  out  of  the  distance,  far,  far  below,  the 
gray  stone  housetops  of  the  French  capital  took  shape. 
Something  impelled  me  to  increase  our  speed,  and  we 
raced  toward  the  city  at  seventy  miles  an  hour.  Incred- 
ibly fast  Paris  becomes  clearer  and  more  distinct. 

The  chain  of  the  forts  St.  Denis !  Montmartre  stands 
out  through  the  mist!  The  iron  pillars  of  the  Eifel 
Tower!  ...  We  are  directly  above  Paris.  The  major 
points  below  with  his  finger ;  then  he  slowly  turns  to  me, 
raises  himself  from  his  seat  and  shouts,  "Hurrah !" 

And  I?  From  sheer  joy,  mother,  I  nearly  went  out  of 
my  mind.  I  began  to  make  the  wildest  circles  in  the 
air.  I  felt  I  could  do  anything.  There  the  white  Sacred 
Heart  Church,  here  the  Gare  du  Nord,  there  Notre  Dame, 
there  the  old  "Boul  Mich,"  where  as  a  student  I  had  so 
often  caroused  and  which  now,  as  conqueror,  I  soared 
above. 


314  Tales  of  Gcrmun  Air  Raiders 

The  heart  of  the  enemy  seemed  defenseless ;  the  proud, 
gleaming  Seine  lay  below  me.  Everything  horrible  which 
I  always  thought  of  Paris  as  possessing  vanished — only 
an  impression  of  the  wonderful  and  the  great  remained; 
and  I  loved  Paris  more  as  a  conqueror. 

Over  the  housetops  I  swung  in  great  circles.  Little 
dots  in  the  streets  showed  me  that  crowds  were  gather- 
ing. They  could  not  understand  how  a  German  could 
handle  the  French  invention  more  skilfully  and  advan- 
tageously than  the  French  themselves.  They  began  to 
shoot  at  us.  It  was  fine.  They  were  very  bad  shots.  I 
felt  like  dropping  a  bomb — not  to  kill  them,  but  simply 
to  see  something  blown  up.  Then  from  the  direction  of 
Juvisy  came  a  French  monoplane.  As  it  was  more  swift 
than  my  biplane,  I  had  to  turn  and  try  to  escape.  My 
Bavarian  comrade  prepared  my  rifle  and  seized  his  pistol. 
The  Frenchman  approached  closer  and  closer.  I  at- 
tempted to  reach  the  protecting  clouds  at  6,000  feet,  but 
my  pursuer  flew  swifter  than  we,  ever  nearer  and  nearer. 
Suddenly  I  became  aware  of  a  second  monoplane  only 
500  yards  away.  It  attempted  to  block  my  path.  We 
had  to  act.  I  shot  at  the  airman  ahead  of  us.  Then  a 
turn  and  the  Major  took  aim.  He  shot  once,  twice, 
three  times.  The  enemy's  machine,  which  was  now  next 
to  us  only  100  yards  away,  toppled,  tilted  upward,  and 
then  fell  to  the  ground  like  a  stone.  But  our  other  pur- 
suer was  almost  on  top  of  us  and  shot  at  us  with  pistols. 
Close  to  the  gas  lever  a  bullet  hit  the  fuselage.  Then 
impenetrable  fog  concealed  us  from  the  enemy.  I  could 
hear  the  buzz  of  his  motor  grow  fainter  and'  fainter. 

When  we  again  emerged  from  this  gray  ocean  of  clouds 
it  was  twilight.  But  suddenly,  before,  behind  and  on  the 
sides,  white  smoke  clouds  appeared  bursting  shrapnel. 
Still  flying  above  the  enemy's  position,  we  were  directly 
exposed  to  their  artillery  fire.     Devil  with  it!     The  fire 


Tales  of  German  Air  Raiders  315 

grew  worse.  I  knew  from  the  little  trembles  that  the 
machine  was  getting  blow  upon  blow,  but  it  never  entered 
my  mind  that  those  shrapnel  balls  meant  death  to  me. 
Something  in  man  remains  unmoved  by  logic  and  knowl- 
edge— especially  when  you're  in  the  air.  There,  of  a 
sudden,  a  white-yellow  fire  in  front  of  me.  The  machine 
reared  up.  The  major  seemed  to  reel  to  his  feet.  Blood 
was  pouring  from  his  shoulder.  The  covering  of  the 
wings  was  tattered.  The  motor  buzzed  and  roared  as 
before,  but  the  screw  was  missing.  A  grenat  shattered 
our  propellor,  but,  thank  heaven,  did  no  worse.  My 
machine  began  sinking  to  earth.  I  succeeded  in  gliding 
and  threw  the  biplane  down  into  the  woods.  The 
branches  and  tree  tops  crashed  to  splinters.  I  struck  the 
steering  gear  and  then  was  no  longer  aware  of  what  went 
on  around  me.  When  I  again  became  conscious  I  was 
lying  next  to  Major  G.  on  the  forest  ground  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  German  reservists.  Recognizing  the  ma- 
chine, they  had  forced  themselves  into  the  forest  in  small 
numbers  to  save  us.  Major  G.  had  to  be  removed  to  the 
nearest  hospital.    I  only  received  a  crushed  leg. 

Your  Affectionate  Son. 

(The  two  foregoing  stories  are  here  retold  by  per- 
mission of  the  New  York  American,  to  whom  they  were 
sent  from  Germany.) 


TALES  FROM  SIBERIA— WHEN  THE 
PRISON  DOORS  OPENED 

Journey  Home  of  a  Hundred  Thousand  Eociles 

Told  by   {name  withheld),   an  Eye-Witness 

I— "RUSSIA   IS   A   REPUBLIC— YOU   ARE 
FREE" 

The  exiles  in  the  Irkutsk  prisons  were  watching  eight 
fellow  prisoners  who  were  being  flogged.  Suddenly,  in 
the  doorway,  an  official  appeared.  It  was  the  Provincial 
State  Attorney.  There  was  a  look  of  great  tidings  in 
his  face. 

"Russia  is  a  republic,"  he  cried.    "You  are  free." 

The  news  of  the  revolution  had  reached  across  the  vast 
stretches  of  Siberia.  It  was  a  moment  of  tense  excite- 
ment. Bewilderment  and  then  jubilation  beset  the  ex- 
iles. An  hour  later  began  one  of  the  strangest  spectacles 
in  modern  history — the  exodus  from  Siberia.  It  is  esti- 
mated that  a  hundred  thousand  political  exiles  began  their 
race  back  to  Russia. 

Traveling  from  the  most  inexcessible  mines  and  set- 
tlements, they  journeyed  by  sledge  or  trudged  on  foot  to 
the  nearest  point  on  the  Trans-Siberian  railway.  It  was 
a  race  against  time.  The  Spring  thaw  was  approaching. 
If  the  exiles  did  not  reach  the  railroad  within  two  weeks 
the  roads  would  be  impassable.  The  wilderness  would 
become  a  sea  of  mud.  Far  in  the  north,  in  the  coldest 
settlements  of  the  lower  Lena,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  move  forward  until  the  ice  breaks  on  the  river  two 
months  later. 

316 


Tales  From  Siberia  317 

The  first  large  party  consisted  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  poHtical  convicts  and  administrative  exiles,  including 
twenty  members  of  the  Jewish  revolutionary  band.  The 
exiles  were  traveling  in  special  cars  and  had  been  on  the 
road  continuously  from  March  24,  five  days  after  they 
first  heard  of  the  revolution. 

The  cars  were  met  by  a  vast  crowd  at  the  railroad- 
station,  which  cheered  them  tumultuously.  The  return- 
ing exiles  returned  the  cheers,  but  they  were  in  a  de- 
plorable physical  condition — shaggy,  uncouth,  unwashed, 
and  extremely  emaciated. 

Many  were  crippled  with  rheumatism,  two  had  lost 
hands  and  feet  from  frostbites,  and  one,  who  attempted 
flight  a  week  before  the  revolution,  had  been  shot  in  the 
leg  when  he  was  recaptured.  He  was  lying  in  a  prison- 
hospital  when  he  learned  that  he  was  a  free  man. 

Five  days  after  the  triumph  of  the  revolution  6,000 
exiles  entered  Irkutsk,  but  the  vast  majority  were  un- 
able to  proceed  west,  owing  to  the  lack  of  rolling-stock. 
These  encamped  about  the  town  and  along  the  railroad, 
and  at  least  a  month  will  be  needed  before  they  can  be 
sent  home. 

The  crowds  at  Tyumen  cheered  the  famous  terrorist, 
Nicolai  Anuikhin,  who  shot  and  killed  the  chief  of  the 
Petrograd- Warsaw  Railway  in  1906.  Hii  victim,  Gen- 
eral FuchloiT,  was  about  to  kidnap  400  railroad  strikers 
and  send  them  to  Siberia. 

Anuikhin,  who  introduced  himself  as  "a  released  jail- 
bird," is  a  gigantic,  broad-shouldered,  elderly  man,  with  a 
gray  imperial  and  an  excited  manner  of  speech.    He  said : 

"After  one  year  in  European  convict  prisons  I  spent 
ten  years  in  the  Alexandrovsk  prison,  fifty  miles  from 
Irkutsk.  This  is  the  biggest  convict  jail  in  Russia  and 
contained  12,000  ordinary  criminals  and  about  500  politi- 
cal prisoners,  mostly  sentenced  to  life  katroga,  the  sever- 


31 8  Tales  From  Siberia 

est     form     of     Russian     punishment     short    of     death. 

"I  spent  the  first  five  years  in  the  so-called  probation 
class,  with  hands  and  feet  manacled  and  chained  to  a 
wheelbarrow  which  I  had  to  take  everywhere.  In  addi- 
tion I  was  repeatedly  flogged  by  order  of  the  Governor. 
The  Assistant  Governor,  during  the  absence  of  his  chief, 
ordered  daily  floggings  for  his  own  satisfaction. 

"The  occupants  of  the  different  dormitories  communi- 
cated by  means  of  tappings  and  other  systems  of  sig- 
naling. Although  we  also  had  means  of  communication 
with  the  outside  world,  we  knew  nothing  of  the  revolu- 
tion until  the  morning  of  our  release. 

"After  our  release  we  learned  that  the  Assistant  Gov- 
ernor, on  getting  the  news  of  the  revolution,  declared  that 
he  would  give  a  farewell  flogging,  *in  order  to  prepare 
my  jailbirds  for  sweet  liberty.'  " 

Among  the  political  prisoners  from  Tobolsk  was  Alex- 
ander Popoff.  He  was  sentenced  to  death  for  an  alleged 
plot  against  the  Emperor,  a  charge  which  he  declares 
was  a  fabrication  by  the  police.  Popoff,  who  is  a  highly 
intelligent  artizan,  was  chained  by  the  wrists  and  ankles 
for  four  years.    In  describing  his  release,  he  says : 

"A  most  remarkable  feature  of  amnesty  day  in  To- 
bolsk was  the  sudden  demand  for  blacksmiths.  The 
prison  blacksmith,  fearing  the  vengeance  of  the  convicts, 
fled,  and  private  blacksmiths,  in  the  general  orgy  of  revo- 
lutionary triumph,  could  not  be  found. 

"In  the  meantime  sixty  chained  men  waited  for  their 
liberation.  The  newly  formed  committee  of  public  safety, 
unable  to  find  blacksmiths,  drove  the  still  chained  convicts 
to  the  dismissed  Governor's  palace,  where  a  banquet  had 
been  prepared,  and  we  had  our  first  free  meal.  Above 
the  din  of  speeches  and  cheers  for  the  Russian  Republic 
could  be  heard  the  jangling  of  our  shackles." 

The  news  of  the  revolution  reached  the  prisoners  in 


Tales  From  Siberia  3^9 

Siberia  by  various  channels,  but  in  all  cases  the  announce- 
ment was  unexpected  and  dramatic.  In  several  places 
the  police  were  wise  enough  to  tell  the  news  themselves 
in  order  to  escape  the  danger  of  suddenly  findmg  them- 
selves in  the  power  of  men  they  had  abused  with  impunity 
for  years.  The  exiles  rarely  rose  against  their  jailers. 
Basil  Muravin,  once  a  social  revolutionist,  tells  this  story : 

"When  the  revolution  occurred  I  was  in  the  small 
Udinsk  transport-prison  awaiting  the  arrival  of  other 
convicts  for  dispatch  together  to  the  east.  I  had  long 
lost  hope  of  pardon  when  I  learned  that  I  was  free.  The 
discovery  came  in  a  most  dramatic  way.  I  was  at  the 
time  in  chains  as  a  newcomer  of  unknown  character.  I 
heard  a  sudden  shouting  and  afterward  a  terrific  rifle- 
firing.  It  sounded  as  if  a  million  cartridges  had  exploded 
in  quick  succession. 

"Next  bullets  began  to  fly  over  the  prison-yard,  i^i- 
nally  a  bullet  cut  the  halyard  of  the  Russian  flag  which 
waved  over  the  prison-building.  The  flag  dropped  on  the 
roof  and  shortly  afterward  a  crowd  stormed  the  prison 
and  hoisted  there  a  revolutionary  ensign.  My  last  expe- 
rience of  the  old  regime  was  a  visit  by  the  former  Gov- 
ernor of  the  jail,  who,  fearing  retaliation,  begged  me  to 
sign  a  statement  acquitting  him  of  ill-treatment.  Though 
his  treatment  of  the  convicts  had  been  bad,  I  agreed, 
not  desiring  to  mar  Russia's  new  freedom  by  acts  of  petty 
vengeance." 

In  another  case  the  priests  announced  the  revolution 

in  the  churches. 

Fifty  exiles,  who  were  in  the  congregation,  rushed  out, 
determined  on  vengeance  on  the  local  police-captain,  who 
was  a  wanton  tyrant.  They  were  met  by  the  policeman's 
ten-vear-old  daughter,  who  stood  before  her  father  and 
exclaimed,  "Kill  me  first!"  The  child's  action  saved  the 
captain's  life. 


320  Talcs  From  Siberia 

II— STORY  OF  THE   HUSSAR  WHO   ESCAPED 
FROM    SIBERIA 

This  is  the  tale  of  a  Hussar  who  had  escaped  twice 
from  Russian  prisons,  faced  murder,  come  half-round  the 
world,  and  ran  the  British  blockade.  He  was  a  reserve 
officer  in  the  Austrian  Army,  a  Hungarian  captain  in  a 
famous  regiment  of  Hussars.  He  was  stationed  in  the 
fortress  at  Peremysl  when  the  Russians  advanced  into 
the  Karpathians  and  took  the  city.  Taken  prisoner,  he 
was  marched  off  to  a  detention  camp  near  the  front  where 
the  officers  were  separated  from  the  soldiers.  The  men 
disappeared,  but  the  officers  were  taken  to  a  military 
prison  near  Odessa. 

The  prison  fare  was  not  particularly  bad,  but  the  mo- 
notony of  the  place  was  dreadful.  Shut  up  as  they  were 
without  anything  to  think  of,  they  began  to  have  all  kinds 
of  imaginary  grievances — principally  against  one  another. 
"If  half  the  challenges  to  deadly  combat  are  carried  out 
there  will  be  a  duel  a  minute  after  the  war,"  he  says. 
It  got  to  be  positively  ludicrous.  Pompous  and  sensitive 
enough  in  all  conscience  in  ordinary  circumstances,  the 
German  and  Austrian  officers,  under  the  nervous  condi- 
tions of  prison  life,  lived  under  a  hair-trigger.  If  you 
accidentally  bumped  into  a  man  on  your  morning  walk, 
or  if  you  forgot  to  bow  in  the  usual  manner,  you  promptly 
had  a  challenge  to  a  duel — to  be  fought  after  the  war,  as 
there  was  nothing  to  fight  with  in  prison. 

Having  been  brought  up  along  the  Galician  borders, 
this  Hungarian  spoke  Russian  like  a  native.  This  fact 
encouraged  him  to  make  an  attempt  to  escape. 

For  some  remarkable  reason  the  Russians  had  allowed 
the  captured  officers  to  retain  all  their  money.  He  him- 
self had  several  thousand  dollars  in  his  pockets.  When 
it  became  whispered  around  that  he  intended  to  make  a 


Tales  From  Siberia  321 

getaway,  other  officers  asked  him  to  carry  money  back 
to  their  families.  The  result  was  that  when  he  slipped 
away  he  had  nearly  $30,000  in  cash  on  his  person. 

He  didn't  tell  me  exactly  how  he  managed  to  get  away, 
but  I  inferred  that  it  was  through  the  bribery  of  some  of 
the  prison  guards.  At  any  rate  he  slipped  out  of  the 
prison  one  night  and  turned  eastward.  His  general  plan 
was  to  make  his  way  down  through  the  passes  of  the 
Caucasus  Mountains  through  Armenia,  and  thence  to 
Turkey,  where  he  would  be  safe. 

Hiding  by  day  and  walking  by  night,  he  managed  to 
get  to  a  half -civilized  little  hamlet  on  the  edge  of  the 
great  mountains. 

The  wilderness  of  the  journey  before  him  left  him 
rather  appalled.  He  had  intended  to  buy  a  horse  and  try 
to  make  his  own  way  through,  but  he  saw  that  this  would 
be  impossible.  It  inevitably  meant  losing  his  way  and 
starving — if  he  were  not  killed  by  wandering  bandits ! 

The  town  was  full  of  wild-looking  Kurdish  mountain- 
eers armed  to  the  teeth.  He  decided  to  open  negotiations 
with  one  of  these  to  act  as  his  guide.  The  first  one  ap- 
proached readily  agreed  to  act  as  his  guard,  guide,  and 
escort  on  the  long  journey  through  the  mountains.  He 
said  the  fellow  was  as  dirty  as  a  pig  and  looked  as  tough 
as  a  Malay  pirate,  but  his  belt  was  filled  like  an  arsenal. 

Under  his  advice,  the  Hungarian  officer  bought  a  horse 
for  about  three  times  what  it  was  worth.  The  arrange- 
ments v/ere  all  made  and  they  were  to  start  the  next  morn- 
ing when  the  wife  of  the  Kurdish  peasant  at  whose  hut 
the  Hungarian  had  taken  lodging  whispered  him  a  word 
of  warning. 

"Don't  go  with  him,"  she  said.  "As  soon  as  you  are 
one  day  out,  he  will  kill  you." 

"Why  should  he  kill  me?"  asked  the  Hussar. 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.     "Well,  it  is  a 


322  Tales  From  Siberia 

long  journey,"  she  said,  "why  should  he  take  all  that 
trouble  when  he  could  get  your  money  in  some  other 
way?" 

Her  logic  was  at  least  convincing  if  not  reassuring. 
The  Hungarian  took  a  little  walk  through  the  one  street 
of  the  town.  In  the  light  of  her  warning,  he  saw  that  all 
the  men  there  would  kill  a  baby  to  get  a  drink  of  milk. 
They  looked  vicious  enough  to  commit  any  crime. 

The  Hussar  sat  down  to  think  it  over.  If  he  tried  to 
go  on  through  the  mountains  alone  he  would  probably  be 
followed  and  killed,  or  assassinated  for  his  rifle  by  the 
wandering  Kurdish  tribe's  in  the  mountains.  If  his  luck 
was  good  enough  to  keep  him  from  being  shot,  he  would 
lose  his  way  and  starve.  If  he  went  out  with  his  guide, 
it  was  simply  a  question  of  how  long  the  man  allowed 
him  to  live.  There  was  only  one  thing  left  to  do — he 
must  get  back  to  the  prison  from  which  he  had  escaped, 
where  he  would  find  food,  shelter,  and  safety. 

He  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  slipped  out  of 
the  hut,  and  took  the  trail  again.  Without  a  great  deal 
of  difficulty  he  found  his  way  back  to  the  prison.  A  day 
or  two  later  the  sentinel  at  the  officers*  prison  was  amazed 
to  see  a  Hungarian  Hussar  come  nonchalantly  up  the  road 
and  ask  to  be  let  into  prison. 

They  led  him  before  the  Russian  governor  of  the 
prison  who  was  furious. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Why,"  said  the  Hussar  blindly,  "I  have  always  wanted 
to  see  these  wonderful  mountains,  so  I  just  went  out  for 
a  day  or  two  to  see  the  scenery." 

"What  do  you  think  this  is,  a  summer  resort?"  roared 
the  Russian  colonel. 

The  Hussar  was  ordered  for  a  time  into  solitary  con- 
finement. But  the  Russian  commandant  was  a  pretty 
good  fellow.    Besides,  with  his  education  and  his  knowl- 


Tales  From  Siberia  323 

edge  of  Russian,  the  Hungarian  was  very  useful  about 
the  prison.     So  they  restored  him  to  favor  very  soon. 

Meanwhile  his  uniform  had  worn  out.  They  had  to 
give  him  some  kind  of  clothing,  so  they  fitted  him  out  with 
the  clothes  of  a  Russian  peasant. 

The  loose,  easy-going  discipline  of  the  prison,  his  pock- 
ets full  of  money,  and  these  Russian  clothes  made  escape 
the  second  time  ridiculously  easy. 

He  said  it  could  scarcely  be  called  escaping.  He  liter- 
ally put  on  his  hat  and  walked.  He  figured  it  out  this 
time  that  the  way  to  avoid  detection  was  not  to  hide 
around  dark  corners ;  but  to  disarm  suspicion  by  openly 
mixing  with  the  crowds. 

Wherefore  he  went  openly  down  the  streets  to  the  rail- 
road-depot, bought  a  ticket  to  Moscow  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  traveled  just  like  any  other  passenger. 

At  Moscow  he  stopped  for  several  weeks.  His  story 
became  decidedly  vague  at  this  point. 

He  told  me  that  he  fell  in  with  a  woman  who  had  the 
entree  to  army  circles  in  Russia  and  that  she  got  him  a 
card  to  a  Russian  officers'  club  where  he  hung  around 
for  tv/o  weeks,  mingling  with  the  officers  without  his 
nationality  being  suspected.  The  woman  had  in  the 
meantime  dressed  him  up  in  good  clothes  and  had  changed 
his  Austrian  money  into  Russian  coinage. 

The  Hussar  tried  to  give  me  the  impression  that  the 
woman  had  fallen  a  victim  to  his  manly  charms  and  had 
thereby  been  induced  to  turn  traitor  to  her  country.  I 
couldn't  quite  believe  this,  he  didn't  look  the  part. 

From  what  we  have  since  learned  of  Russian  condi- 
tions, it  seems  very  probable  that,  when  the  Hussar  got 
to  Moscow,  he  hunted  up  the  circle  of  German  spies  who 
were  operating  there,  reported  for  duty,  and  was  taken 
care  of. 


324  Talcs  From  Siberia 

"Well,  what  am  I  going  to  do — stay  here  for  the  rest 
of  my  life?"  demanded  the  Hussar  testily. 

"Patience,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man.  "To-night  there 
is  another  train — a  scrubby  little  local  train  that  runs 
back  and  forth  across  the  border  carrying  the  peasants 
and  traders.  No  one  pays  any  attention  to  that  train. 
You  will  be  on  it  when  it  goes  out  to-night." 

When  the  local  train  left  that  night  the  Hussar  was 
one  of  the  passengers.  The  others  were  dirty,  badly 
smelling  Manchurian  farmers. 

But  it  carried  him  safely  across  the  border  and  into 
China.  Without  further  difficulty  he  made  his  way  to 
America. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  the  Eastern  coast  and  expected 
to  take  ship  for  Austria  within  a  month.  When  his  com- 
panion hinted  that  he  would  find  it  harder  to  get  through 
the  British  blockade  than  to  hoodwink  the  Russian  offi- 
cials, he  winked.  And  sure  enough,  within  three  months 
the  Westerner  had  received  a  card  from  him.  He  was 
back  at  his  old  table  in  the  cafe  of  Peremysl,  drinking 
cool  concoctions  from  tall  glasses. 

(The  foregoing  stories  are :  (I)  told  in  the  Nezu  York 
Evening  World;  (H)  told  in  the  Los  Angeles  Times,  and 
reprinted  in  the  Literary  Digest.) 


SURVIVORS'  STORIES  OF  SINKING 
OF  THE  LUSITANIA 

''How  We  Saw  Our  Ship  Go  Down — Torpedoed 
by  a  German  Submarine" 

Told  by  Passengers  of  the  Ill-Fated  '^Lusitania^* 

These  tragic  stories  are  like  voices  from  the  grave — the  ocean 
giving  up  its  dead.  They  are  told  by  those  who  were  saved 
from  the  tragedy  ship  on  that  fearful  day,  May  7,  1915  (at  2:08 
p.m.  Greenwich  time)  when  the  Lusitania,  fifteen  miles  oflF  "Old 
Head  of  Winsale"  on  the  Irish  coast,  was  torpedoed  by  a  Ger- 
man submarine.  The  Lusitania  sailed  from  New  York  at  noon, 
May  I,  1915,  carrying  1,959  persons — passengers  and  crew.  It 
had  been  warned  by  official  notices  from  the  German  embassy 
that  it  would  be  attacked  by  German  submarines,  which  only 
aggravates  the  crime  by  making  plain  its  deliberate  intention. 
The  voyage  was  uneventful  until  the  seventh,  when  the  ship, 
running  at  17  knots,  was  nearing  its  destination.  It  was  sLjrtly 
after  luncheon,  the  sea  was  calm,  when  two  torpedoes  struck 
the  Lusitania.  The  scenes  of  terror  which  followed  are  de- 
scribed by  the  survivors — a  few  of  their  stories,  typical  of  their 
fearful  experiences,  are  told  here.  The  ship  sank  in  less  than 
twenty  minutes,  and  1,198  men,  women,  and  children  went  down 
into  an  ocean  grave. 

I— STORY  OF  CAPTAIN  W.  T.  TURNER,  COM- 
MANDER OF  THE  "LUSITANIA" 

I  WAS  on  the  bridge  of  the  Lusitania  (at  2:08  Friday 
afternoon,  May  7,  191 5,  off  Old  Head  of  Kinsdale  on 
Irish  Coast)  when  I  saw  a  torpedo  speeding  toward  us, 
and  immediately  I  tried  to  change  our  course,  but  was 
unable  to  manoeuvre  out  of  its  way.    There  was  a  terrible 

325 


326  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Ltisitania" 

impact  as  the  torpedo  struck  the  starboard  side  of  the 
vessel,  and  a  second  torpedo  followed  almost  immedi- 
ately. This  one  struck  squarely  over  the  boilers.  I  tried 
to  turn  the  Liisitania  shoreward,  hoping  to  beach  her, 
but  her  engines  were  crippled  and  it  was  impossible. 
Until  the  Liisitania  came  to  a  standstill  it  was  absolutely 
out  of  the  question  to  launch  the  boats — they  would  have 
been  swamped.  It  has  been  suggested  that  it  was  impact 
with  ammunition  in  the  cargo  that  made  the  work  of  the 
torpedoes  so  deadly,  but  if  there  had  been  ammunition 
in  the  cargo  the  Lusitania  would  have  been  blown  to 
pieces.  I  saw  the  torpedoes  with  my  own  eyes  as  did 
many  others.     It  was  cold-blooded  murder. 

I  was  in  the  water  four  hours  after  the  Lusitania  sank. 
I  am  a  strong  swimmer,  and  so  was  able  to  keep  afloat 
until  I  was  rescued.  When  I  was  swimming  about,  sud- 
denly a  German  submarine  rose  to  the  surface  amid  the 
wreckage,  then  submerged  again.  Some  persons  in  life- 
boats nearby  saw  the  submarine  even  better  than  I  did. 

(As  Captain  Turner  went  about  the  streets  of  Queens- 
town  he  tried  bravely  to  cheer  the  survivors,  but  he 
seemed  stunned.  For  the  most  part  he  walked  with 
bowed  head,  and  many  of  those  he  met  did  not  recognize 
him.  When  told  of  the  recovery  of  Charles  Frohman's 
body,  and  of  the  finding  of  many  other  Americans  among 
the  dead,  tears  came  to  his  eyes.) 

II— STORY  TOLD  BY  W.  B.  PHILLIPS,  AN 
AMERICAN  PASSENGER 

It  was  seven  or  eight  minutes  after  2  o'clock  when  the 
torpedo  struck  us,  and  my  watch  stopped  at  2  .-33,  when  I 
went  into  the  water  a  half  minute  before  the  Lusitania 
disappeared.  Captain  Turner  was  on  the  bridge  when  the 
ship  went  down,  and  the  last  order  I  heard  him  give  was 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  ''Lusitania"  327 

"Hard  aport,"  just  before  the  torpedo  struck.  It  seems 
as  though  he  was  trying  to  turn  the  ship  to  escape  the 
torpedo.  I  rushed  on  deck,  but  met  two  women  in  the 
companionway  who  shouted  "torpedo" !  I  rushed  back 
to  my  stateroom  for  some  belongings,  but  as  the  water 
was  coming  through  the  promenade  deck  I  didn't  wait,  but 
rushed  back  to  the  deck  again.  Most  everybody  went 
to  the  cabins  for  Hfe  preservers.  There  was  no  panic, 
though  lots  of  excitement.  Not  even  a  panic  when  the 
ship  went  down. 

The  worst  thing  was  the  inefficiency  with  the  lifeboats. 
On  the  port  side  many  of  the  davits  wouldn't  work  and 
the  boats  would  not  go  over.  The  tackle  broke  on  one  of 
f ou!-  or  five  boats  I  saw  lowered,  while  one  dropped  from 
the  davits  and  split  in  two.  A  few  of  the  collapsible 
boats  floated  away  upside  down,  while  one  raft,  which 
some  one  cut  away  with  an  axe,  crushed  some  men  who 
were  trying  to  climb  into  a  boat. 

There  was  a  great  whirlpool  when  the  Lusitania 
finally  settled  into  the  sea,  but  no  suction.  I  was  drawn 
into  the  whirlpool,  but  had  no  trouble  in  swimming  out. 
She  went  down  very  fast  at  one  end.  Our  boat,  which 
was  the  most  crowded  of  all,  with  eighty-four  in  it,  was 
almost  swamped  by  the  wireless  antennae,  which  swept 
across  us  as  the  Lusitania  keeled  over  for  the  last  time 
before  she  righted  and  sank. 

The  daughter  of  Lady  Allan  told  me  she  saw  the  sub- 
marine, but  I  know  of  no  one  else  who  did.  Shots  were 
fired  while  we  were  in  the  small  boats,  about  twenty 
minutes  after  the  Lusitania  sank,  but  I  don't  know  if 
they  were  from  the  submarine.  They  might  have  been 
signals  from  land.  The  only  boat  in  sight  was  a  fishing 
smack,  or  pilot  boat,  three  or  four  miles  away.  There 
was  smoke  on  the  horizon,  and  one  vessel  seemed  to  be 
coming  up,  but  she  sheered  off. 


328  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Ltisitania" 

The  wireless  operator  told  me  he  got  In  four  wireless 
signals  and  got  an  answer  to  the  last  one.  The  boats 
rowed  toward  the  smack,  which  took  part  of  the  people 
on  board  and  towed  two  other  boatloads.  It  was  5  o'clock 
when  we  were  picked  up,  and  at  that  time  no  boat  was 
anywhere  near  the  scene  of  the  wreck.  One  trawler  got 
to  the  wreck  about  5  :30.  It  was  followed  by  two  torpedo 
boats  and  eight  or  nine  other  boats.  Captain  Turner  had 
ordered  some  lifeboats  swung  over  the  side  on  Wednes- 
day and  all  swung  over  on  Thursday  morning,  but  the 
rafts  and  collapsible  boats  were  not  touched,  but  remained 
securely  fastened.  There  was  plenty  of  boat  accommo- 
dation if  there  had  been  time  to  get  them  over. 

The  men  all  waited  until  no  women  were  in  sight  be- 
fore they  went  into  the  boats.  I  never  believed  it  true 
before,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  regular  chorus  all  the 
time  on  the  Lusitania:    "Women  first!     Women  first!" 

Ill— STORY  OF  OLIVER  P.  BERNARD,  AN 
ENGLISH  PASSENGER 

I  think  I  can  say  that  I  was  one  of  the  few  persons 
who  really  saw  a  torpedo  discharged  at  the  Lusitania. 
Coming  on  deck  from  the  dining  saloon.  I  was  leaning 
against  the  starboard  rail  of  the  ship  when  I  saw  the 
periscope  of  a  submarine  about  two  hundred  yards  away. 
Then  I  noticed  a  long  white  streak  of  foam.  It  gave  me 
the  impression  of  frothy  fizzing  in  water.  A  woman 
came  to  me  and  said :  "There's  a  torpedo  coming."  Be- 
fore she  had  finished  the  explosion  took  place  and  tons 
of  debris  were  blown  up  through  the  four  decks.  Almost 
immediately  there  was  a  terrific  impact,  followed  by  an 
explosion.  The  Lusitania  was  going  at  fifteen  knots  at 
the  time.  The  shot  was  perfectly  aimed  at  the  boat,  and 
when  it  struck,  debris,  dust  and  water  were  thrown  up  in 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Lusitania'  329 

a  dense  column  through  the  entire  superstructure  of  the 
vessel  about  the  bridge.  A  hundred  must  have  been 
blown  to  atoms,  including  trimmers  and  stokers,  to  say 
nothing  of  men  and  women  in  the  forward  cabins,  who 
were  about  to  come  on  deck. 

The  Lusitania  fell  over  to  starboard  and  then  slowly- 
righted  part  way.  Nearly  every  one  rushed  below.  I 
went  to  the  flying  deck  and  stood  between  the  funnels, 
where  I  could  see  them  making  an  awful  mess  of  getting 
the  boats  out.  They  were  cutting  and  hacking  at  them. 
The  first  boat  floated  away  empty.  The  next  three  were 
smashed.  The  Marconi  main  room  was  put  out  of  com- 
mission by  the  first  torpedo;  then  the  wireless  operator 
rushed  to  the  emergency  room,  and  just  as  he  got  the 
first  reply  to  the  "S.  O.  S."  the  whole  apparatus  went  out 
of  action. 

The  first  torpedo  hit  amidship  by  the  grand  entrance 
to  the  saloon  and  rear  of  the  bridge.  A  Marconi  man 
rushed  to  me  and  offered  me  a  chair,  and  said  I  had 
better  take  that,  as  it  might  be  useful  and  better  than 
nothing. 

A  few  moments  after  the  explosion  the  vessel  toppled 
over,  as  if  she  were  in  dry  dock  and  some  of  the  under- 
pinning on  the  starboard  side  had  been  knocked  away. 
There  was  a  frantic  dash  from  the  starboard  entrances 
to  the  port  side  and  from  below  women  were  shouting, 
"What  shall  we  do?"  They  knew  well  what  had  hap- 
pened, as  the  chance  of  being  torpedoed  was  discussed 
every  day.  I  heard  nothing  else  on  the  voyage.  When 
the  Lusitania  listed  still  more  I  slid  ofif  the  flying  deck 
on  to  the  boat  deck,  and  from  there  fell  into  a  boat  lying 
alongside.  As  I  got  into  the  boat  she  was  swept  almost 
away  by  one  of  the  funnels  falling  across  her,  and  we 
only  managed  to  push  clear.  I  saw  a  minister's  wife 
sucie^d  right  down  one  of  the  funnels  and  shot  out  again, 


330  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  *'Lusitania" 

looking  like  a  piece  of  burned  coal.  We  managed  to 
save  her.  I  rowed  for  some  time  with  a  woman  between 
my  knees  before  discovering  that  she  was  dead. 

There  was  no  great  excitement,  in  the  real  sense  of  the 
word.  Most  of  the  women  tried  hard  to  keep  cool,  and 
except  for  occasional  screams  of  "Where  is  my  husband? 
Where  is  my  child  ?"  they  acted  bravely.  I  noticed  more 
people  going  below  than  coming  on  deck  after  the  ex- 
plosion. The  last  person  I  spoke  to  before  the  vessel 
went  down  was  Mrs.  Mason,  the  young  American  daugh- 
ter of  William  Lindsay,  a  manufacturer  of  Boston,  who 
was  on  her  honeymoon.    She  was  asking  for  her  husband. 

Alfred  Vanderbilt  I  saw  standing  outside  the  grand 
entrance  of  the  saloon,  looking  quite  happy  and  perfectly 
composed.  He  was  holding  a  jewel  case  for  a  lady,  for 
whom  he  was  apparently  waiting.  I  did  not  see  Charles 
Frohman  until  I  saw  his  body  in  a  mortuary.  His  was 
the  most  peaceful  face  among  all  those  I  saw  there. 
There  was  no  trace  of  agony,  and  unlike  others  his  fea- 
tures were  not  disfigured  in  any  way.  Frohman  was  none 
too  well  on  the  voyage,  and  was  hardly  able  to  walk,  so 
he  remained  in  his  cabin  most  of  the  time,  where,  I  be- 
lieve, he  was  when  the  ship  sank.  Elbert  Hubbard  and 
his  wife  I  also  believe  went  down  in  their  cabin. 

The  first  two  boats  from  the  port  side  were  manned 
principally  by  officers.  The  slow  speed  gave  the  Germans 
an  absolutely  pointblank  shot.  They  couldn't  miss.  Only 
God's  fair  weather  and  daylight  brought  us  ashore.  If 
the  Lusitania  had  been  convoyed  or  had  put  on  speed  she 
would  have  been  here  now. 

The  wireless  operators  were  still  sending  out  calls  from 
their  emergency  apparatus,  the  main  wireless  room  hav- 
ing been  disorganized.  The  ship  was  now  listing  badly 
to  starboard,  and,  taking  a  swivel  chair  which  an  oper- 
ator offered  to  me,  I  slid  down  into  the  water  and  to  a 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  ''Lusitania"  331 

boat  which  was  still  attached  to  the  davits  and  which  was 
partly  covered  with  water.  We  cleared  the  boat  not  a 
moment  too  soon,  for  we  had  hardly  done  so  when  the 
vessel  went  down  on  the  starboard  side,  one  of  the  fun- 
nels grazing  our  heads.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the 
monster  vessel  disappeared  amidst  the  cries  of  those  who 
had  been  caught.  It  was  one  long  indescribable  scene  of 
agony.  There  was  floating  debris  on  all  sides  and  men 
and  women  and  children  clinging  for  dear  life  to  deck 
chairs  and  rafts  which  littered  the  water.  Many  were 
entangled  in  wreckage,  and  one  by  one  they  seemed  to 
fall  off  and  give  themselves  up. 

About  the  last  thing  I  saw  happen  on  the  boat  was  the 
chief  Marconi  operator  taking  a  photograph  when  the 
vessel  was  listed  to  45  degrees,  but  the  pictures  were 
spoiled  by  the  water.  We  rowed  around  for  three  and  a 
half  hours  before  we  were  picked  up. 

IV— STORY  TOLD  BY  GEORGE  A.  KESSLER,  AN 
AMERICAN  PASSENGER 

I  saw  the  wake  of  the  first  torpedo  the  moment  before 
the  Lusitania  was  struck.  I  was  on  the  upper  deck. 
Looking  out  to  sea,  I  saw  all  at  once  the  wash  of  a 
torpedo,  indicated  Dy  the  snaKelike  churn  on  the  surface 
of  the  water.  It  was  about  thirty  feet  away.  Then  came 
the  thud  as  it  struck  the  ship.  Mr.  Berth  and  his  wife, 
of  New  York,  first  class  passengers,  were  the  last  per- 
sons I  spoke  to  on  the  ship.  About  this  time  all  the  pas- 
sengers in  the  dining  saloon  had  come  up  on  deck.  The 
upper  deck  was  crov/ded,  and  the  passengers  were  won- 
dering what  was  the  matter,  few  really  believing  that 
the  ship  had  been  torpedoed.  They  began  to  lower  boats. 
I  saw  Berth  help  his  wife  into  a  boat.  I  fell  into  the 
same  boat  and  we  were  shipped  down  into  the  water. 


332  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Lusitania" 

About  a  minute  after  the  boat  struck  the  water,  I 
looked  up  and  cried  out:  "My  God!  The  Lusitania  is 
gone !"  We  saw  her  entire  bulk,  which  had  been  almost 
upright  just  a  few  seconds  before,  suddenly  lurch  over 
away  from  us.  Then  she  seemed  to  stand  upright  in 
the  water  and  the  next  instant  the  keel  of  the  vessel 
caught  the  keel  of  our  boat  and  we  were  thrown  into  the 
water.  There  were  only  about  thirty  people  in  the  boat 
and  I  should  say  that  all  were  stokers  or  third  class 
passengers. 

When  the  boat  was  overturned  I  sank  fifteen  or  twenty 
feet  and  I  thought  I  was  a  goner.  However,  I  had  my 
lifebelt  around  me  and  I  managed  to  rise  again  to  the 
surface.  There  I  floated  for  possibly  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes, when  I  made  a  grab  at  a  collapsible  lifeboat,  to  which 
other  passengers  were  clinging.  We  managed  to  get  it 
shipshape  and  clamber  in.  There  were  eight  or  nine  in 
the  boat.  It  was  partly  filled  with  water,  and  in  the 
scramble  which  occurred  the  boat  overturned,  and  once 
more  we  were  pitched  into  the  water.  This  occurred,  I 
should  say,  eight  times,  the  boat  righting  itself  each  time. 
Before  we  were  picked  up  by  the  Bluebell  six  of  the 
party  of  eight  or  nine  were  lying  drowned  in  the  bilge 
water  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  It  was  cold-blooded, 
deliberate  murder  and  nothing  else — the  greatest  murder 
the  world  has  ever  known. 

STORY  OF  CHARLES  T.  JEFFREY,  AN  AMERI- 
CAN PASSENGER 

I  was  in  the  smoking  room  when  the  explosion  took 
place.  It  shook  the  whole  ship,  just  as  a  train  would 
shake  if  the  locomotive  suddenly  stopped  and  backed 
into  it.  I  did  not,  of  course,  know  what  it  was,  and  it 
did  not  occur  to  me  that  we  had  been  torpedoed.     I 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  *' Liisitania"  333 

thought  it  might  be  a  mine,  or  that  we  had  run  upon  a 
rock,  but  it  simply  did  not  occur  to  my  mind  to  imagine 
anything  so  horrible  as  that  this  defenseless  ship  with  its 
helpless  passengers  would  be  torpedoed  without  warning. 

I  left  the  smoking  room  and  went  out  on  deck  to  look 
over  the  side  at  the  spot  where  the  ship  was  when  the 
explosion  took  place.  It  was  about  300  feet  away.  The 
ship  began  to  take  a  list  to  starboard,  but  very  slowly. 
There  was  no  panic,  either  then  or  at  any  other  time. 
Many  other  passengers  came  out  and  looked  over  the  side, 
just  as  I  did,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  alarm  or  any 
rushing  about. 

I  went  down  to  "A"  deck  to  see  what  was  happening 
there,  but  there  was  no  commotion,  any  more  than  there 
was  on  the  upper  one,  to  which  I  returned.  But  the 
ship  was  listing  more  and  more.  The  lifeboats  had  been 
swung  out  the  previous  day,  and  1  saw  women  and  chil- 
dren being  put  into  them  by  sailors.  There  was  no  rush- 
ing for  the  boats,  no  struggling  for  places ;  everything 
was  being  done  with  perfect  calmness  and  orderliness.  I 
went  down  to  my  cabin,  meeting  many  people  in  the 
alleyways  with  lifebelts  and  others  going  for  them. 

I  made  my  way  aft,  and  seeing  no  one  on  the  navigat- 
ing bridge,  scrambled  up  there,  where  I  could  observe 
everything  that  was  happening  along  one  side  of  the  ship. 
The  ship  now  heeled  over  so  much  that  the  passengers 
were  clinging  to  the  deck  rail.  It  was  a  terrible  sight; 
their  helplessness,  with  the  great  ship  steadily  going  down 
under  us. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  terrific  rumbling,  roaring  noise ; 
the  huge  ship  trembled  as  her  funnels  went  over,  and 
she  just  slid  under  the  v*raves  by  the  head.  Then  she 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  checked,  as  though  her  bow  had 
struck  something,  but  it  was  only  momentary,  and  in  an- 
other moment  she  disappeared  under  the  water.     I  went 


334  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Liisitania" 

down  with  her,  but  came  to  the  surface  again  very 
quickly.  All  around  me  I  saw  great  numbers  of  persons 
struggling  in  the  water.  Presently  there  floated  near  me 
a  rectangular  sheet  metal  can,  like  the  air  tank  of  a 
lifeboat,  and  I  clutched  it.  I  waited  for  a  rescuer,  but 
there  was  none  in  sight.  Then  two  men  came  along, 
hanging  on  to  a  barrel  with  handles  on  each  end,  so  I 
brought  my  tank  over  and  caught  on  to  it  for  company. 
We  were  hanging  on  for  some  time,  when  a  man  of 
seventy-five  and  a  boy  of  seventeen  came  along  on  a 
plank.  The  boy  could  not  swim.  We  caught  them  and 
added  them  and  their  plank  to  our  party. 

After  another  twenty  minutes  or  so  we  saw  in  the 
distance  what  looked  like  a  raft,  so  we  swam  toward  it, 
pushing  our  supports.  It  took  us  nearly  half  an  hour  to 
reach  that  raft,  and  it  turned  out  to  be  a  collapsible  boat. 

We  were  in  this  boat  some  time,  and  were  taking  in 
water  steadily,  when  a  man  weighing  perhaps  250  pounds 
floated  by,  without  any  life  preserver.  He  was  all  in, 
but  we  got  him  aboard.  Next  a  foreigner,  who  could 
speak  no  English,  got  in  with  us.  Then  a  woman  floated 
along  with  a  deck  chair  and  an  oar,  and  we  took  her 
aboard,  but  it  was  doubtful  how  long  we  could  remain 
afloat,  so  one  man  took  the  can  I  spoke  of  and  pushed 
off  on  his  own  account. 

At  last,  at  6.10,  after  four  hours  in  the  water,  the 
trawler  took  us  in.  We  were  stiff  and  cold,  and  went 
down  to  the  engine  room  to  dry  our  clothes.  We  were 
tended  with  the  greatest  care  by  the  crew.  It  was  an 
experience  no  man  would  like  to  lace  agum,  ana  tnose 
who  went  through  it  will  have  a  lasting  memory  of  its 
horror.  Why,  I  remember  on  the  voyage  over  remarking 
that  I  never  saw  so  many  babies  and  young  children  on 
any  ship. 


Survivors^  Stories  of  the  ''Lusitania"  335 

VI— STORY  TOLD  BY  DR.  DANIEL  V.  MOORE, 
AN  AMERICAN  PASSENGER 

After  the  explosion  quiet  and  order  were  soon  accom- 
plished by  assurances  from  the  stewards.  I  proceeded  to 
the  deck  promenade  for  observation  and  saw  only  that 
the  ship  was  fast  leaning  to  starboard.  I  hurried  toward 
my  cabin  below  for  a  lifebelt  and  turned  back  because  of 
the  difficulty  in  keeping  upright.  I  struggled  to  D  deck 
and  forward  to  the  first-class  cabin,  where  I  saw  a 
Catholic  priest. 

I  could  find  no  belts  and  returned  again  toward  E  deck 
and  saw  a  stewardess  struggling  to  dislodge  a  belt.  I 
helped  her  with  hers  and  secured  one  for  myself.  I 
then  rushed  to  D  deck  and  noticed  one  woman  perched 
on  the  gunwale,  watching  a  lowering  lifeboat  ten  feet 
away.  I  pushed  her  down  and  into  the  boat,  then  jumped 
in.  The  stern  of  the  lifeboat  continued  to  lower,  but 
the  bow  stuck  fast.  A  stoker  cut  the  bow  ropes  with  a 
hatchet,  and  we  dropped  in  a  vertical  position. 

A  girl  whom  we  had  heard  sing  at  a  concert  was  strug- 
gling and  I  caught  her  by  the  ankle  and  pulled  her  in. 
A  man  I  grasped  by  the  shoulders  and  I  landed  him  safe. 
He  was  the  barber  of  the  first-class  cabin,  and  a  more 
manly  man  I  never  met.  He  showed  his  courage  and  his 
will  later  on. 

We  pushed  away  hard  to  avoid  the  suck,  but  our  boat 
was  fast  filling  and  we  bailed  fast  with  one  bucket  and 
the  women's  hats.  The  man  with  the  bucket  became  ex- 
hausted and  I  relieved  him.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was 
level  full.  Then  a  keg  floated  up  and  I  pitched  it  about 
ten  feet  away  and  followed  it.  After  reaching  it  I  turned 
to  see  the  fate  of  our  boat.  She  had  capsized  and  cov- 
ered many.  Now  a  young  steward,  Freeman,  by  name, 
had  approached  me,  clinging  to  a  deck  chair.     I  urged 


336  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Lusitania" 

him  to  grab  the  other  side  of  the  keg  several  times. 
He  grew  faint,  but  harsh  speaking  roused  him.  Once 
he  said :  "I  am  going  to  go,"  but  I  ridiculed  this  and 
it  gave  him  strength.  By  stroking  with  our  legs  we  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  a  raft. 

We  were  in  the  water  about  one  hour  and  a  half.  At 
this  time  I  suffered  from  violent  vomiting.  Then  fol- 
lowed appalling  chills,  but  by  beating  myself  I  restored 
my  energy  and  was  soon  handling  an  oar.  Freeman  col- 
lapsed, but  recovered  after  reaching  the  patrol  boat 
Brock,  There  were  about  twenty-three  persons  on  the 
raft.  They  worked  nobly  in  picking  five  of  us  up  after 
what  seemed  an  eternity. 

The  good  boat  Brock  and  her  splendid  officers  and 
men  took  us  aboard.  I  went  to  the  engine  room  and 
stripped  to  the  skin.  Here  and  in  the  room  above  I 
cared  for  men  and  women  as  they  were  rescued.  Little 
ten-year-old  Frank  Hook  had  his  left  thigh  bone  frac- 
tured. This  I  reduced  and  splinted,  and  in  a  short  while 
Frank  asked,  *Ts  there  a  funny  paper  on  the  boat?" 

At  the  scene  of  the  catastrophe  the  surface  of  the 
water  seemed  dotted  with  bodies.  Only  a  few  of  the  life- 
boats seemed  to  be  doing  any  good.  The  cries  of  "My 
God !"  "Save  us !"  and  "Help !"  gradually  grew  weaker 
from  all  sides  and  finally  a  low  weeping,  wailing,  inarticu- 
late sound,  mingled  with  coughing  and  gurgling,  made 
me  heartsick.  I  saw  many  men  die,  Some  appeared  to 
be  sleepy  and  worn  out  just  before  they  went  down, 
others  grew  gradually  blue  and  an  air  of  hunger  gave 
their  features  a  sardonic  smile. 

There  was  no  suction  when  the  ship  settled.  She  went 
down  steadily  and  at  the  best  possible  angle.  The  life- 
boats were  not  in  order  and  they  were  not  manned.  Most 
of  the  people  rushed  to  the  upper  decks. 

I  did  not  hear  a  second  explosion.    There  is  no  more 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  ^'Lusitania"  337 

horrible  or  pitiable  sight  possible  than  the  sight  of  the 
faces  of  mothers  and  babies  and  girls  here  in  the 
morgues. 

Weighing  all  the  facts  soberly  convinces  me  that  it 
was  only  through  the  mercy  of  God  that  any  one  was 
saved.  I  sailed  from  America  that  I  might  offer  my 
services  as  a  surgeon.  I  have  visited  the  Valley  of  Death 
and  am  heartsick. 

VII— STORY  OF  FUNERAL  OF  "LUSITANIA'S" 
DEAD— TOLD  BY  AN  EYE-WITNESS 

Ninety-two  passengers  of  the  Lusitania  who  formed 
part  of  that  pitiful  handful  of  maimed,  dead  and  dying 
brought  ashore  with  the  survivors  of  the  disaster  that 
followed  the  attack  on  the  vessel  by  a  German  submarine 
were  buried  with  services  that  have  no  parallel  in  history. 
Under  a  sky  in  which  not  a  single  cloud  floated  and  to  the 
strains  of  hymns  played  by  British  soldiers  they  were 
laid  to  rest  two  miles  behind  Queenstown  in  a  cemetery 
bursting  with  spring  greenery  and  tucked  between  hills 
flaming  with  gorse.  The  services  at  the  graves  began 
at  four  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  four  the  sod  of  Ireland 
was  being  shovelled  upon  the  coffins. 

Queenstown  sensed  the  full  horror  of  the  Lusitania 
disaster.  Up  to  the  time  that  the  long  stream  of  coffins 
began  to  disappear  over  the  hill  behind  the  town  there 
was  about  the  affair,  what  with  the  continued  searches  for 
survivors  and  the  bustle  about  the  morgue,  something  of 
the  unusual  and  theatric.  But  when  the  funeral  started 
the  realization  came  that  each  of  these  cheap  coffins  held 
a  body  and  that  in  the  Atlantic,  less  than  twenty  miles 
away,  there  were  more  than  a  thousand  in  addition,  all 
victims  of  a  German  submarine. 

The  townsfolk  stood  hatless  nearly  all  forenoon  as  th^ 


338  Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Lusitania" 

coffins  were  conveyed  to  the  cemetery  on  carts.  This 
process  required  hours,  and  it  was  not  until  three  o  clock 
in  the  afternoon  that  the  funeral  procession  proper  left 
the  Cunard  offices  at  the  waterfront.  There  were  only 
three  bodies,  one  each  in  a  hearse,  in  this  cortege,  the 
other    eighty-nine   already    having   been   placed   in   the 

cfraves. 

With  the  British  army  band  playing  Chopin's  "Funeral 
March"  the  funeral  procession  marched  through  the 
crooked  streets  past  the  cathedral,  which  stands  on  the 
highest  point  of  the  town,  and  then  took  its  course  along 
an  undulating  country  road,  now  rising  and  now  sinking 
between  green  hills.  Along  this  road  country  folk  were 
clustered  for  the  most  part,  perched  on  stone  fences  be- 
hind the  soldiers  who  guarded  the  road  the  entire  two 
miles  from  the  cathedral  to  the  cemetery.  Those  waiting 
in  the  graveyard  first  heard,  borne  faintly  on  the  soft 
breeze,  the  notes  of  the  funeral  march  and  then  the 
sound  of  muffled  drums.  A  moment  later  the  sun  flashed 
on  the  band  instruments  and  the  tortege  took  form  in 
the  distance.  Not  for  more  than  an  hour,  however,  did 
it  reach  the  lane  bordering  the  cemetery,  which  it  entered 
in  the  following  order : — 

A  major  of  the  Royal  Irish  infantry  on  horseback,  five 
members  of  the  Irish  Constabulary  and  a  group  of 
Protestant  churchmen,  then  in  black  robes  came  thirteen 
priests,  and  behind  them  were  the  hearses,  draped  with 
British  flags,  to  the  rear  of  which  trudged  the  mourners, 
among  them  several  American  survivors  of  the  disaster. 
The  sailors  from  the  steamship  Wayfarer,  which  was 
recently  torpedoed  but  was  able  to  make  port,  came  next, 
and  behind  them  the  members  of  the  Corporation  of 
Cork,  headed  by  the  Lord  Mayor.  A  company  of  ma- 
rines followed  and  then  came  sailors  of  the  various 
British  ships  in  harbor.    The  British  officers,  numbering 


Survivors'  Stories  of  the  "Lusitania"  339 

a  hundred  odd,  marched  erect  but  slow.  Next  in  line 
were  captains  Miller  and  Castle,  Attaches  of  the  Ameri- 
can Embassy  in  London.  Both  were  dressed  in  khaki 
uniforms.  A  party  of  British  naval  officers  and  Admiral 
Sir  Charles  Coke,  of  Queenstown,  followed  them.  The 
Most  Reverend  Robert  Browne,  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  rode 
in  a  carriage. 

The  procession  was  a  full  hour  in  passmg  mto  the 
cemetery.    There  soldiers  guarded  the  walls  as  six  other 
soldier  pallbearers  lifted   the  coffins   from  the  hearses 
and  set  them  beside  the  graves.    The  three  coffins  rested 
beside  separate  graves.    The  other  eighty-nine  had  previ- 
ously been  placed  in  three  great  pits— sixty-five  in  one, 
in  layers  two  deep,  and  twelve  each  in  the  other  two.  Con- 
ducted by  Bishop  Browne,  the  Catholic  service  was  held 
first,  the  choir  boys  bearing  incense,  appearing  from  a 
cluster  of  elms  and  coming  to  the  graveside.    The  Church 
of  Ireland  service,  that  is,  the  Protestant  Episcopal,  fol- 
lowed,  and   finally  the  non-conformist   rites   were  per- 
formed.    As  the  last  words  of  this  service  were  spoken 
the  muffled  drums  rolled  and  the  familiar  hymn,  "Abide 
with  Me,"  swelled  forth.     Sailors  who  had  replaced  the 
soldier  pallbearers  then  lowered  the  coffins  into  the  small 
graves,  and  simultaneously  the  earth  began  to  thud  on 
the  coffins  in  all  the  graves.    The  crowd,  nearly  all  with 
eyes  wet,  slowly  left,  some  to  take  jaunting  cars,  but  most 
of  them  to  trudge  across  the  fields  of  the  city.    As  they 
reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  immediately  above  the  harbor 
flashed  into  view  and  in  it  the  flag  of  every  vessel  flut- 
tered at  half  mast. 

Many  children  and  little  babies  lie  in  the  morgues  like 
so  many  dolls.  The  townspeople  covered  them  with  flow- 
ers yesterday  and  it  is  probable  these  little  ones  will  be 
placed  in  a  grave  together. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS  ON 
THE  FIELDS  OF  FRANCE 

Personal  Experiences  Direct  from  the  Front 

This  is  a  series  of  personal  narratives  and  letters  from  the 
American  soldiers  with  Pershing  in  France.  This  great  Ameri- 
can army  "captivated  the  French  imagination."  Our  boys  who 
have  gone  across  seas  to  fight  with  the  Allies  carried  the  Ameri- 
can flag  into  new  glories  and  triumphs  that  will  become  epics 
of  valor  in  the  annals  of  mankind.  These  letters  have  been 
collected  by  the  New  York  Sun,  with  whose  permission  they 
are  given  permanent  historical  record.  They  give  a  clear 
insight  into  the  American  soldier's  life  in  the  first  days  of 
Pershing's   army  in    France. 

I— STORY   OF   LIFE   OF   THE   AMERICAN 
SOLDIER 

(Told  by  Private  Joseph  A.  Deegan,  of  the  Eleventh 
Railway  Engineers) 

The  daily  life  of  the  American  soldiers  and  their  rela- 
tions with  those  of  other  nations  is  an  intimate  and  inter- 
esting phase  of  the  war  concerning  which  little  has  been 
published.  Here  is  a  description  of  them  among  the 
French,  the  Chinese  laborers  and  Hindus  and  the  Ger- 
man trenches: 

Fine  is  no  name  for  the  way  I  feel.  The  climate  in 
the  part  of  France  we  have  finally  settled  in  is  just  be- 
twixt and  between.  It  is  lukewarm.  Over  in  England  it 
was  rain,  rain,  rain.  Everything  was  wet  and  muddy. 
We  slept  and  ate  in  mud  right  up  to  our  mustaches. 
However,  the  blooming  little  isle  had  its  good  points,  so 

340 


With  the  American  Soldiers  341 

I  ought  not  to  knock  it.  London  gave  us  a  royai  wel- 
come, and  I  now  have  a  few  good  friends  there.  A  live 
time  also  awaits  me  if  I  ever  go  back  to  Exeter,  Alder- 
shot  or  Folkestone. 

But  turning  the  film  back  to  La  Belle  France,  here  we 
have  nice  climate,  an  exciting  war,  excellent  champagne 
and  a  set  of  girls  that  would  make  the  boys  back  home 
green  with  envy.  What  more  could  a  man  ask?  The 
only  trouble  with  the  French  people  is  their  unfailing 
habit  of  trying  to  overcharge  us.  However,  we  are  get- 
ting on  to  their  curves  now  and  take  discounts  oflf  every 
price  they  ask.  For  instance,  when  I  go  into  a  candy 
shop  the  proprietress  will  exclaim :  "Ah,  bon  Americain." 
Then  she  will  proceed  to  quote  me  one  and  one-half 
francs  for  a  bar  of  five-cent  chocolate.  After  a  little 
hesitation  and  figuring  on  my  part  I  slip  her  half  a  franc, 
and  even  at  that  she  is  making  a  75  per  cent  profit.  She 
accepts  the  slight  reduction  with  a  deprecating  air,  and 
probably  mutters  to  herself  :  "Those  Yankees  are  as  stupid 
as  foxes."  Aside  from  our  little  monetary  differences 
we  and  the  French  are  the  most  affectionate  of  com- 
rades. 

Somewhere  in  France  we  camped  next  door  to  a  Chi- 
nese labor  camp.  There  was  a  small  army  of  them.  The 
Mongolians  are  the  best  pals  we  have  run  into  yet.  They 
were  so  honored  by  the  attention  paid  to  them  by  the 
whites  that  they  broke  their  necks  to  please  us.  When 
I  said  to  a  Chink:  "Gimme  a  cigarette,  Charlie,"  he 
would  run  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  his  tent  and  come  back 
with  a  fistful.  Some  of  the  Chinks  even  wanted  to  lend 
money  to  our  boys.  LTn fortunately,  however,  our  bunch 
got  to  selling  them,  at  exorbitant  prices,  gold  rings  that 
after  a  rainstorm  resembled  the  Irish  flag,  and  wrist 
watches  with  the  small  item  of  works  entirely  missing. 
The  English  soldiers  sort  of  wised  up  the  Yellow  Perils 


242  With  the  American  Soldiers 

to  our  tricks  and  before  we  parted  company  with  them 
they  became  noticeably  cool  toward  us.  Well,  they  were 
Coolies,  anyhow.    That's  a  cool  joke. 

Lower  down  in  France  we  were  camped  directly  op- 
posite a  tribe  of  Hindus— you  know,  the  kind  with 
knotted  Turkish  towels  for  hats.  These  birds  bury  and 
pick  the  pockets  of  all  soldiers  killed  on  the  front,  so 
you  cannot  sell  them  trinkets.  They  have  carloads  of 
them.  The  Hindus  are  surlier  and  dirtier  than  the  Chi- 
nese gentlemen,  and  we  did  not  mingle  with  them^  so 
freely.  If  you  want  to  get  them  drawing  knives  just 
holler,  "Buddha  no  hon!"  They  are  fanatics  on  religion. 
About  a  week  ago  we  visited  their  camp  and  they  im- 
mediately challenged  us  to  a  tug  of  war.  They  had  about 
twelve  on  one  end  of  the  rope  and  we  had  only  seven. 
Evidently,  however,  they  are  not  over  strong,  because 
we  pulled  them  almost  up  to  the  firing  line.  They  are 
hard  losers,  and  might  have  drawn  their  bowies,  but  I 
think  they  suspected  we  were  Irish,  so  they  remained 
peaceable. 

The  guns  play  a  constant  tattoo  at  night,  and  I  am  get- 
ting used  to  them  now.  The  other  day  a  few  other  fel- 
lows and  myself  made  a  tour  of  inspection  among  some 
recently  deserted  German  trenches  up  near  the  line.  In 
them  we  found  feather  beds,  a  box  of  cigars  and,  last  but 
not  least,  a  beautifully  toned  organ.  The  feather  beds 
were  wet  and  coated  with  mud,  so  we  couldn't  bother 
with  them.  You  will  say  "Impossible"  when  I  say  I  left 
the  cigars  there  also.  This  I  did,  however,  as  the  Ger- 
mans have  a  playful  habit  of  poisoning  such  dainties. 
The  organ  was  badly  warped  and  too  far  below  the 
ground  to  attempt  to  salvage,  but  we  stayed  there  for  a 
while  and  I  made  the  subterranean  passages  echo  to  the 
strains  of  "Ragging  the  Scale." 

Another  pet  trick  that  the  Germans  employ  is  to  leave 


With  the  American  Soldiers  343 

a  watch  hanging  on  the  wall  of  their  abandoned  trenches. 
Said  watch  connects  with  a  high  explosive  bomb  which 
explodes  when  the  Ingersoll  is  removed  from  the  wall. 
The  other  night  I  was  talking  with  a  couple  of  English 
soldiers,  who  told  me  that  the  English  and  Bavarians  be- 
came so  friendly  at  one  stage  of  the  war  that  a  squad 
of  the  English  soldiers  crossed  over  to  the  German 
trenches  one  night,  had  a  little  souse  party  with  the  Ba- 
varians and  returned  back  to  the  allied  trenches  in  the 
morning.  For  this  they  were  court-martialled.  They 
say  that  the  Bavarians  will  frequently  holler  over  to  the 
English  not  to  fire  any  shots  so  that  they  can  eat  their 
dinner  in  quiet,  and  they  will  reciprocate  in  like  manner. 
The  English  apparently  have  no  hard  feelings  against 
the  Bavarians,  but  sure  do  hate  the  Prussians.  Yester- 
day I  saw  a  vicious  air  fight.  The  German  aviator  looped 
the  loop  with  his  machine  fully  a  dozen  times  in  order 
to  escape  the  machine-gun  fire  from  the  Allies'  planes, 
and  escape  he  did,  for  I  saw  him  shooting  over  the  Ger- 
man lines  leaving  his  pursuers  far  behind. 

Any  German  prisoners  I  see  I  always  give  them  a 
cheery,  'Wie  gehtsf"  and  some  of  them  answer  **Good 
morning"  in  English.  They  are  sick  of  the  war  and 
claim  they  are  glad  to  be  prisoners.  Visited  a  large 
French  city  the  other  day  which  the  Germans  had  oc- 
cupied but  which  was  recaptured  by  the  French.  No 
human  being  could  imagine  the  destruction  that  has  been 
wrought  there.  Among  the  thousands  of  houses  there  is 
not  a  single  one  that  could  be  lived  in.  Most  of  them  are 
beaten  to  dust,  churches  and  everything  else.  An  old 
Frenchman  there  told  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes  how  his 
daughter  and  the  rest  of  the  girls  of  the  city  had  been 
forcibly  taken  away  by  the  Germans  when  they  were 
evacuating  the  city.  I  can  now  understand  enough 
French  to  converse  in  a  broken  way.     The  slogan  here 


344  With  the  American  Soldiers 

now  is,  "Give  the  Germans  hell  and  take  no  prisoners." 
From  all  stories  and  indications  they  have  acted  like  bar- 
barians and  deserve  the  worst  treatment  possible.  Their 
fire  is  becoming  weaker  and  I  think  their  days  are  num- 
bered. The  Americans  will  put  the  finishing  touches  on 
them,  and  don't  be  surprised  if  I  send  you  a  postcard 
from  Berlin  some  day. 

II— STORY  OF  A  VOLUNTEER  IN  AMERICAN 
RED    CROSS 

(Told  by  Edward  J.  Doyle,  with  American  Army) 

The  experiences  and  the  souvenirs — such  as  a  piece  of 
shell  shot  through  an  ambulance  and  buttons  cut  from 
the  uniforms  of  German  prisoners — of  a  volunteer  in  the 
American  Red  Cross  service  are  recorded  in  this  letter. 

Sherman  was  right,  but  he  knows  nothing  about  it.  I 
suppose  by  this  time  you  know  all  about  the  attack,  and 
needless  to  say  I  have  been  through  it  all.  Haven't  had 
my  clothes  off  in  over  a  week  and  my  total  sleep  might 
average  about  three  hours  a  day  for  that  time,  so  you  can 
imagine  how  I  feel.  We  haven't  been  working  all  the 
time,  but  we  get  shelled  out  of  every  place  we  try  to 
sleep,  when  we  get  a  chance,  and  that's  worse  than  work- 
ing. We  are  quite  a  way  to  the  left  of  where  I  wrote 
from  last.  We  relieved  a  section  that  could  not  stand  the 
work — that  was  before  the  attack — and  you  can  imagine 
what  it  was  during  and  since  the  attack. 

We  arrived  at  B a  week  ago  this  morning  and 

started  in.  That  night  the  Germans  shelled  that  town,  and 
imagine,  it's  about  fifteen  miles  from  the  German  lines. 
We  were  alone  in  a  barn,  and  when  the  shells  began  to 
go  over  our  heads  and  gas  with  it,  you  can  see  how  much 
sleep  we  had.  Next  morning  Bud  and  I  started  out,  and 
the  car  is  running  rotten.  The  Germans  are  shelling  the 
road  all  the  way  from  here.     This  is  our  first  post  out 


With  the  American  Soldiers  345 

of  R ,  about  three  miles  from  B .    Don't  try 

to  look  up  these  towns;  it's  a  useless  task.     Poste  4,  a 

like  distance  from  R — .     We  get  in  the  middle  of 

Hill  ,  about  a  mile  from  Poste  2,  when  the  car 

dies. 

About  100  yards  ahead  of  us  is  a  crossroad  and  the 
Boche  is  shelling  it.  Bud  and  I  didn't  realize  where  we 
were,  and  all  alone,  mud  over  our  shoe  tops  where  we 
stopped.  We  worked  on  the  car  for  one  and  a  half  hours, 
falling  in  the  mud  every  time  a  German  shell  came 
through  the  air.  We  got  eleven  holes  in  our  car  from 
that  morning,  and  a  piece  of  shell  went  right  through 
an  inch  rod  on  the  front  of  the  car.  I'll  show  you  a  pic- 
ture of  that.  We  were  the  first  in  the  section  to  get  hit, 
and  how  we  escaped  alive  is  the  wonder  of  every 
one  who  has  seen  the  car,  and  we  are  always  the  center 
of  attraction  when  we  stop  along  the  road  or  at  the  postes. 
I  have  a  piece  of  shell  that  went  through  the  car — a 
souvenir.  We  were  in  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the 
whole  woods — French  guns  on  every  side  of  us,  but  of 
course  we  didn't  know — and  those  were  what  the  Ger- 
mans were  after. 

When  we  finally  decided  we  couldn't  get  the  car  to 
run  we  made  for  a  nearby  dugout,  and  a  Frenchman  there 
told  us  we  had  our  nerve.  I  left  Bud  there  and  walked 
back  to  this  post — about  three  and  one-half  miles — got 
a.  other  car  and  towed  our  own  back — that  was  our 
baptism  of  fire,  and  it  was  plenty.  We  got  our  car  fixed 
up  that  day  and  worked  all  that  night  and  the  next  day. 
That  night  we  were  dead,  and  the  damn  Germans 
shelled  B again,  and  we  had  to  get  out  twice  dur- 
ing the  night  and  run  for  a  nearby  quarry,  and  no  one 
who  has  not  been  through  it  can  imagine  the  feeling  of 
being  awakened  by  hearing  a  shell  go  over  your  head, 
and  almost  before  you  can  get  into  your  shoes  and  out 


346  With  the  American  Soldiers 

of  a  place  another  drops  near  by.  It's  a  thousand  times 
worse  than  being  on  a  shelled  road  because  you  can  see 
a  shell  hit  the  road  and  invariably  another  follows — 
wait  for  the  second  one  to  land  and  then  beat  it — some 
sport. 

I'm  at  P.  J.  Left  now,  our  most  advanced  post  with 
the  exception  of  one  about  a  mile  from  here,  which  we 
make  only  at  night,  as  the  Germans  can  see  the  road  from 
their  first  lines.  They  must  have  seen  us  on  the  road — 
some  plane  of  theirs — as  they  have  been  shelling  here 
ever  since  we  arrived.  We're  in  the  dugout  now  and  I 
don't  expect  to  find  my  car  when  I  come  out  at  the  rate 
the  shells  are  landing  around  here. 

Now  for  the  attack.  Sunday  we  were  at  Post  4 — a 
piece  of  shell  just  landed  on  my  helmet.  I'm  just  at  the 
entrance  of  the  dugout — got  to  stop — it's  getting  too 
warm. 

Friday,  1 150  p.m. — Just  got  out  of  P.  J.  Left.  They 
shelled  it  from  12  o'clock  yesterday  until  9:30  last  night. 
Blew  up  everything  in  sight  but  our  dugout;  killed  a 
couple  of  the  brancardiers ;  blew  up  the  kitchen,  and  you 
should  have  seen  what  was  left  of  our  car — everything 
was  hit  on  the  darn  thing  but  the  air  in  the  tires. 

The    French    made    another    attack    last    night    on 

Hill  and  took  it.     You  have  undoubtedly  read 

about  it  if  you  have  followed  the  news.  Back  for  the 
attack  now — Sunday  we  were  at  Post  4,  that  is,  my  car-  - 
and  we  made  a  couple  of  trips  from  there,  and  all  Sunday 
night  the  woods  were  just  ablaze  with  guns  firing  and 
the  boys  went  over  the  top  at  4  40.  All  we  carried  that 
night  had  been  gassed  and  there  was  a  bunch  of  them. 
At  5  :io  a  car  came  to  poste,  saying  they  could  not  make 
Poste  2 — the  road  was  blocked — so  the  lieutenant  tele- 
phoned and  gave  me  a  note  to  deliver  to  Poste  2 — that 
meant  get  it  there.     Well,  we  started  out,  and  such  a 


With  the  American  Soldiers  347 

sight!     There  was  one  whole  ammunition  train  along 
the  road  that  had  been  shelled  and  gassed — every  horse 

dead — and  not  only   horses.     We  got  to  Hill  , 

where  Bud  and  I  were  stuck,  and  such  a  sight ! 

Two  trains  had  been  gassed,  and  we  cut  the  horses 
that  were  still  alive  from  the  carriages  and  then  there  was 
a  stampede.  I  shall  never  forget  that  morning — the  road 
blocked,  shell  holes,  gas,  dead  horses,  at  least  fifty  of 
them,  in  less  distance  than  a  city  block,  and  this  awful 
racket.  Well,  we  got  the  road  cleared  and  made  Poste 
2,  and  there  it  was  worse  than  ever.  Our  chief  and  sous- 
chief  and  about  six  of  our  boys  had  been  there  all  night, 
gas  masks  on  for  nine  hours.  Two  of  them  had  shell 
shock,  another  hysterical,  and  the  dead  and  wounded  all 
around  us.  I'm  poor  at  description,  and  you  could  nevef 
picture  such  a  scene.  Well,  we  got  a  load  and  started 
back.  You  could  still  cut  the  gas,  and  after  we  had  gone 
a  way  one  of  the  couches  rapped  on  the  window.  We 
stopped.  The  fellow  on  the  top  stretcher  had  died,  his 
head  had  fallen  off  the  edge  of  the  stretcher  and  he  was 
leaking  from  the  mouth  on  the  chap  below.  We  took  him 
out,  fixed  his  head  on  the  stretcher  and  started  on,  shells 
dropping  all  around  us.  How  we  ever  got  through  no 
one  knows,  but  we  did,  and  that's  just  the  way  things 
went.  Carried  Boches  and  cut  buttons  off  some  of  the 
prisoners — have  a  Boche  helmet  and  gas  mask — souve- 
nirs. 

ni— STORY   OF   AN    AMERICAN    ENGINEER 
IN    FRANCE 

(Told  by   (name  suppressed),   nth  Regiment  Railway 
Construction  Engineers) 

This  member  of  Company  D,  nth  Regiment  Railway 
Construction  Engineers,  swings  pick  and  axe  and  acts  as 
chauffeur  on  a  handcar,  but  he  enjoys  it  heartily. 


34^  With  the  American  Soldiers 

For  several  days  we  have  been  busy  getting  some  new 
drills,  but  unfortunately  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you  the 
nature  of  them. 

All  day  yesterday  was  my  own  time,  but  I  was  too 
busy  cleaning  up  to  write.  The  sun  v/as  shining  most 
of  the  day,  for  a  change,  so  I  was  able  to  wash  my 
clothes,  air  my  blankets,  etc.,  and  take  a  real  bath. 

We  made  stoves  out  of  some  large  oil  cans,  and  as  we 
have  deep  pans  we  boiled  our  clothes  out  and  then 
scrubbed  them  well  on  our  washboard.  But  the  real 
treat  was  our  bath.  We  walked  about  half  a  mile  to  a 
British  camp,  where  they  have  some  bath.  They  have 
rigged  up  a  small  room  with  live  steam  in  it.  We  stood 
in  the  room  for  at  least  a  half  hour  and  just  perspired. 
Then  a  cold  shower  and,  believe  me,  for  the  first  time 
since  I  left  home  I  was  real  clean. 

Do  you  remember  how  you  laughed  at  my  army  shoes 
because  they  were  so  heavy?  Well,  you  should  see  our 
shoes  now.  They  are  the  same  as  the  Tommies  wear  in 
the  trenches.  The  soles  are  nearly  as  thick  as  the  heels 
von  our  other  shoes.  Besides,  the  heels  and  soles  are 
studded  with  iron  plates  and  hobnails.  Of  course  they 
are  very  heavy,  but  for  all  of  that  they  are  very  fine 
shoes,  as  the  wear  in  them  surpasses  the  lighter  Ameri- 
can shoe  and  they  are  better  protection  from  water.  We 
have  also  discarded  the  canvas  leggings  and  are  now 
wearing  the  spiral  cloth  puttees. 

We  are  still  in  a  rest  camp  belonging  to  the  British, 
but  suppose  we  will  be  moving  off  to  our  own  base  in 
the  near  future.    The  powers  that  be  know  best. 

In  the  Base  Camp — Hurrah!  Received  your  package 
yesterday  in  perfect  condition,  and  maybe  I  wasn't  happy, 
also  the  squad,  for  of  course  they  have  to  have  some  of 
it.    Best  of  all,  the  cigarettes  and  tobacco  are  real  Ameri- 


With  the  American  Soldiers  349 

can  products.  I  do  not  care  for  the  English  stuff.  And 
the  candy — well,  "nuf  sed !" 

Last  night  a  number  of  us  walked  around  a  very  in- 
teresting battlefield.  If  I  should  give  you  its  name  you 
would  remember  it  as  one  of  the  famous  ones  of  the  war. 
I  have  never  seen  so  much  junk  lying  round  as  there  is 
on  this  old  battleground.  Bullets,  old  shells,  helmets, 
guns  and  what  not.  There  is  so  much  stuff  we  did  not 
bother  to  pick  it  up.  We  found  a  number  of  English 
rifles  and  shrapnel  helmets,  some  with  a  lot  of  holes  in 
them.  I  guess  the  men  who  wore  them  are  dead.  As  for 
graves,  well,  in  some  spots  they  are  as  thick  as  daisies. 

You  wanted  to  know  if  I  had  taken  any  pictures.  Un- 
fortunately all  cameras  were  confiscated,  so  nothing  do- 
ing in  that  direction.  As  it  is,  there  is  very  little  scenery 
of  interest  where  we  are.  The  country  is  fairly  well 
blasted  and  the  tops  of  all  the  trees  are  gone;  but  you 
can  see  such  pictures  in  the  Sunday  supplements. 

I  do  not  know,  of  course,  if  the  newspapers  say  that 
we  are  being  well  fed  or  not,  but  we  certainly  do  not  feel 
the  effects  of  the  U-boat  war.  While  we  were  in  the 
rest  camp  we  did  not  eat  any  too  well,  but  now  that  we 
are  in  a  permanent  camp  everything  is  changed.  How 
does  roast  beef,  tomatoes,  brown  gravy,  butter,  tea,  jam 
and  apple  dumplings  sound?  Of  course  the  apple  dump- 
lings were  not  hard  to  get,  as  we  have  the  apples  grow- 
ing in  our  camp.  The  flour,  however,  came  from  the 
good  old  U.  S.  A. 

For  the  last  few  days  I  have  been  swinging  a  heavy 
pick  and  axe  and  playing  chauffeur  (with  some  other 
fellov/s)  on  a  handcar.  Believe  me,  it  is  hard  work  pump- 
ing one  of  those  cars  heavily  loaded  against  a  head  wind 
or  on  an  up  grade.  However,  the  work  is  doing  me 
worlds  of  good.  I  am  feeling  fine  and  getting  stronger 
every  day. 


350  With  the  American  Soldiers 

There  is  something  doing  on  our  front  to-night.  From 
all  the  banging  noise  Tommy  must  be  strafing  Fritz  good 
and  !)lenty. 

We  have  had  several  issues  of  tobacco  since  we  arrived 
in  this  part  of  the  world.  I  do  not  know  where  the  to- 
bacco comes  from,  but  imagine  it  is  part  of  the  money 
collected  from  our  good  citizens  in  New  York.  The 
only  trouble  is  that  it  is  English  tobacco  and  not  the  good 
old  American  kind. 

It  would  surprise  many  of  our  curio  seeking  friends 
to  see  what  we  do  with  those  that  we  pick  up.  Our 
poker  is  an  old  French  bayonet,  something  that  many  a 
person  would  put  in  a  cabinet  under  lock  and  key. 

On  Leave. — Immediately  after  breakfast  I  started  for 
a  very  famous  city  some  nine  or  ten  miles  from  our 
camp.  I  stopped  in  for  a  friend  of  mine,  in  one  of  the 
other  companies.  We  started  to  walk  to  town  in  hopes 
of  having  a  motor  lorry  (just  plain  motor  truck  in 
America)  overtake  us,  but  we  had  covered  some  five  miles 
before  we  were  overtaken  by  a  horse-drawn  wagon. 

This  particular  city  (censor  forbids  my  giving  name) 
was  never  reached  by  the  Huns  except  at  long  range  bom- 
bardment. One  can  hardly  believe  the  amount  of  de- 
struction the  Huns  are  capable  of  doing  when  they  start 
out  on  their  career  of  hate. 

In  this  town  they  seem  to  have  centered  their  ven- 
geance on  a  most  beautiful  church  and  one  of  the  fine 
old  cemeteries  that  France  is  noted  for.  The  church 
was  not  entirely  demonished,  but  I  think  it  is  beyond  re- 
pair. As  for  the  cemetery,  many  a  poor  Frenchman  re- 
turned to  the  surface  before  the  Angel  Gabriel  had  blown 
his  trumpet. 

Just  next  to  this  old  cemetery  is  a  new  one.  Instead  of 
old  tombstones  and  marble  crypts,  this  plot  is  marked 
with  many  small  white  wooden  crosses.    Here  and  there 


With  the  American  Soldiers  351 

one  can  find  a  more  pretentious  cross,  indicating"  an  offi- 
cer. One  cannot  realize  the  tug  at  the  heartstrings  until 
one  has  seen  the  hand  marks  of  "Kultur."  The  only 
consolation,  a  brutal  one,  is  that  on  the  way  to  the  town 
are  many  graves  with  German  names  on  the  crosses. 

But  let's  get  cheerful  and  talk  of  the  main  object  of 
my  trip,  to  get  something  to  eat.  The  real  fun  of  the 
day  came  while  we  were  eating.  Fritz  paid  us  a  visit  by 
aeroplane  and  dropped  a  few  visiting  cards  in  the  shape 
of  bombs.  A  couple  of  Tommies  were  eating  in  the 
same  room,  and  as  they  showed  a  great  deal  of  sang 
froid  I  was  compelled  to  do  the  same.  However,  my 
real  fear  was  that  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  finish  my  eggs, 
but  would  have  to  dive  for  a  bomb-proof.  Fortunately  he 
was  driven  away  before  much  damage  was  done  and  I 
finished  my  eggs  in  peace. 

1  forgot  to  tell  you  that  our  quarters  are  the  most  com- 
fortable we  have  had.  We  are  in  a  hut  which  is  built 
like  a  tunnel.  The  outside  is  made  of  corrugated  iron, 
but  the  inside  is  lined  with  wood.  There  are  fourteen 
of  us  in  my  hut,  but  there  is  plenty  of  room.  We  sleep 
on  cots  for  the  first  time  since  we  left  Fort  Totten. 

IV— STORY    OF    AN    AMERICAN    WITH    A 
SIEGE   BATTERY 

(Told  by  Wallace  Gibbs) 

Our  guide  in  this  trench  is  zvith  a  British  siege  gun 
battery  shelling  and  being  shelled  by  the  Germans  on  the 
Flanders  front.  He  tells  of  a  stormy  night  under  shell 
fire. 

Aug.  13,  1917. 

Your  letter  followed  me  all  around  Blighty  and  over 
half  of  France.     And  yet  it  got  me.     Got  me  in  the 


352  WitJi  the  American  Soldiers 

middle  of  a  tree-shattered,  shell-pocked  country  field,  in 
a  wee  hole  in  the  ground.  That's  some  postal  service  for 
you ! 

Guns  are  going  merrily  to-night.  Fritz  was  putting  up 
S.  O.  S.  signals  a  bit  ago.  He  dropped  one  on  our  cook 
house  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Poor  "Ginger," 
our  cook,  got  it  badly.    Head,  back  and  leg. 

You  can't  dodge  'em  here ;  there's  too  much  row.  Be- 
sides, one  don't  hear  the  shell  that's  going  to  get  one. 
Don't  know  whether  that's  a  blessing  or  not.  A  vivid 
imagination  is  no  good  to  any  one  out  here.  Some  fel- 
lows are  jumpy  with  expectation ;  others  are  always  smell- 
ing gas,  and  so  on. 

Saw  a  boche  plane  brought  down  yesterday.  He  made 
a  terrific  attempt  to  get  right,  almost  succeeded,  then  nose 
dived  plumb! 

Can  you  picture  me  in  a  little  narrow,  gravelike  hole, 
writing  this — and  guns  firing  behind  me  and  Hun  shrap- 
nel whining  and  bursting  with  a  ping  just  outside  ?  That's 
the  doings  just  now.    Fritz  is  being  real  nasty. 

You  just  live  on  chance  at  this  game.  One  gets  cal- 
lous— only  thoughts  of  home  annoy  a  bit.  One  fellow 
got  killed  early  this  morning.  It  was  hard  lines.  Fritz 
was  pushing  the  shell  over;  it  was  black  and  wet,  only 
gun  flashes  giving  light  now  and  again,  leaving  it  blacker 
than  before.  (Things  are  rotten  in  the  night!)  One 
came  very  near  to  where  they  were  unloading  shell.  He 
made  a  dive  for  an  old  trench :  just  then  another  burst. 
He  copped  it  when  he  had  only  a  yard  to  go.  Another 
second  would  have  done  it.  It's  all  luck.  I  was  at  the 
cook  house  to-night;  I  left  just  a  bit  before.  I  said  to 
a  fellow,  "Are  you  going  up  to  the  guns?"  He  said, 
"No."    So  I  pushed  off  on  my  own. 

Still  that's  only  stray  shooting,  nothing  to  what  we 
give  Fritz.    He  must  have  hell  in  his  lines.    He's  getting 


With  the  American  Soldiers  353 

what  the  British  once  got,  only  more  so.  He  didn't  have 
to  fight  then,  he  merely  walked  over.  Now  he  gets  as 
good  as  he  gives,  and  he  don't  like  it.  You  never  saw 
such  a  weary,  scared-looking  crowd  in  your  natural  as 
the  mob  that  came  in  from  the  latest  push.  I  was  sorry 
for  the  boys — some  looked  only  15  years  old.  They 
were  mixed  with  big,  sour,  dour,  square-head  swine.  We 
are  looking  forward  to  giving  them  another  dig  soon. 

The  men  are  not  commenting  much  on  the  U.  S.  A 
coming  in.  They  don't  comment  much  on  anything,  now 
everybody  is  in ;  but  it  will  make  a  big  difference. 

It's  a  very  nice  war  in  "Blighty,"  with  nice  time,  pol- 
ished buttons  and  a  pair  of  swanky  boots  and  heaps  of 
glory  reflected  from  the  lads  out  here.  But  out  here — 
well,  a  fellow  might  fight  a  Hun,  but  damned  if  he  can 
fight  a  shell ! 

Still,  it's  marvelous  how  little  notice  one  can  take  of 
them  when  they're  somewhere  else,  but  it  don't  half 
buck  up  one's  ideas  when  they  get  personal.  The  soul- 
ful Huns  usually  open  up  at  night  time  when  fellows  are 
trying  to  forget — shells  and  guns,  lice  and  biscuits.  (Oh, 
those  army  biscuits!) 

Well,  George,  this  has  got  to  finish.  Gas  is  coming 
over  now  in  shells,  dozens  of  them;  I  must  put  on  my 
mask.  The  air  is  growing  sweet  and  sickly.  Isn't  he  a 
rotter?  .  .  .  All  clear  again.  Jove,  he  dropped  them 
close!  Some  experience  between  those  two  lines,  eh? 
Hope  this  finds  you  in  the  Pink.  Best  regards  to  every- 
body. 

V— STORY    OF    AN    AMERICAN    AMBULANCE 
DRIVER  AT   BATTLEFRONT 

(Told  by  James  M.  White — "Somewhere  in  France") 

The  thrilling  experiences  through  which  drivers  for  the 


354  With  the  American  Soldiers 

American  Ambulance  in  France  pass  are  narrated  in  this 
letter.  Mr.  White  has  been  decorated  with  the  Croix  de 
Guerre. 

So  many  things  have  happened  .  .  .  that  I  hardly 
know  where  to  begin.  Also,  I  am  pretty  tired  out,  so 
please  excuse  this  letter  if  it  is  rather  incoherent.  We 
have  been  working  our  present  posts  now  for  three  weeks 
and  often  it  has  meant  forty-eight  hours  steady.  Not 
only  has  it  been  hard  work  but  it  has  been  most  exciting. 
One  of  the  boys  who  has  been  always  with  the  section 
says  that  never  has  he  seen  such  all  round  hard  and  ex- 
citing work.  It  is  practically  over  now  and  we  will  all 
be  very  glad  to  go  en  repos. 

You  have  seen  by  the  papers  of  around  this  date  what 
a  successful  attack  the  French  have  made.  Out  of  the 
numerous  sections  of  the  ambulance  we  had  the  honor  of 
doing  the  hardest  work,  and  it  has  been  well  appreciated, 
for  letters  have  been  written  to  the  General  about  it. 
That  probably  will  mean  a  citation  for  us. 

When  I  write  you  about  what  we  have  gone  through 
I  do  it,  not  for  personal  reasons,  but  because  I  want  you 
to  know  that  this  work  is  no  play,  and  far  from  being  an 
occupation  of  the  "semi-heroic  rich.'*  I  have  seen  more 
of  war  in  five  minutes  in  this  sector  than  in  months  in 
the  other  places  we  have  been.  Nine  of  our  twelve  cars 
have  been  hit,  but  luckily  only  one  chap  has  been 
wounded,  and  that  not  very  seriously.  I  really  think 
there  is  a  divine  Providence  watching  over  us,  for  you 
would  hardly  believe  some  miraculous  escapes  that  have 
taken  place. 

I  have  seen  demonstrated  something  which  I  had  heard 
but  never  believed,  namely  that  a  shell  can  land  so  close 
that  its  proximity  saves  one,  the  eclats  going  over  one's 
head.  Shells  play  queer  tricks  at  times.  Three  cars 
were  standing  in  a  row,  one  with  two  wounded.    A  shell 


With  the  American  Soldiers  355 

landed  near  and  the  concussion  blew  whole  panels  out 
of  each  car  and  killed  the  two  men.  The  remarkable  part 
is  that  neither  the  cars  nor  men  were  actually  hit  by 
anything  but  dirt. 

Nowadays  the  Germans  seldom  send  over  waves  of 
gas.  They  seem  to  prefer  to  send  in  hundreds  of  gas 
shells.  These  have  the  same  whistle  as  the  high  ex- 
plosives but  do  not  explode  with  a  loud  noise.  It  is  more 
like  the  opening  of  a  gigantic  ginger  ale  bottle.  They 
do  a  lot  of  damage,  for  they  often  catch  one  unawares. 
They  will  pick  out  a  hollow  and  just  drench  it  with  gas 
shells ;  some  smell  like  garlic  and  others  like  mustard. 
We  have  found  it  impossible  to  drive  at  night  with  masks 
on,  especially  those  of  us  who  wear  glasses,  for  they  im- 
mediately fog  up.  All  of  us  dread  these  shells,  much 
preferring  to  take  our  chance  with  the  high  explosive. 
A  soldier  was  telling  me  of  a  new  gas  that  they  send  in 
by  shells.  Wherever  there  is  a  perspiration  on  the  body 
it  forms  an  acid  which  gives  a  very  bad  burn.  The  men 
suffer  most  around  the  necks,  under  the  arms  and  on  the 
hands. 

Altogether,  this  has  been  a  tremendously  interesting 
period.  The  aerial  activity  has  been  intense,  there  being 
lots  of  fights  and  numerous  captive  balloons  brought 
down.  The  Germans  have  a  nasty  habit  of  coming  over 
at  night,  flying  low  and  turning  their  mitrailleuse  on  the 
roads  which  they  know  are  crowded  with  wagons  car- 
rying material. 

By  a  lucky  shot  the  other  day  the  Germans  started  a 
fire  in  a  small  munitions  depot  quite  close  to  us.  I  have 
seen  displays  of  fireworks,  but  this  had  them  all  beaten 
with  a  four  hours'  display.  Some  of  the  abris  up  front 
are  perfect  marvels  of  safety  and  comfort  and  I  shall 
try  and  give  you  an  idea  of  one.  One  side  of  a  solid 
stone  hill  had  been  used  before  the  war  as  a  quarry.    This 


356  With  the  American  Soldiers 

particular  side  happened  to  be  away  from  the  Boche.  It 
has  been  so  tunnelled  that  one  walks  through  cave  after 
cave  with  plenty  of  head  room  and  spacious  rooms. 
Everywhere  there  is  plenty  of  light  supplied  by  an  elec- 
tric generator  and  one  finds  a  wonderfully  complete  and 
clean  operating  room.  Remember  this  is  all  within  a 
mile  and  a  half  of  the  front-line  trenches,  which  in  mod- 
ern warfare  is  a  short  distance. 

The  wounded  get  splendid  treatment;  but  of  course 
stretchers  take  the  place  of  beds,  for  it  is  by  no  means  a 
hospital.  They  can  comfortably  take  care  of  200  men 
and,  mind  you,  all  of  this  has  been  cut  out  of  solid  rock. 
At  such  a  post  we  get  the  men  and  take  them  back  to 
the  field  hospital,  where  they  may  again  be  sorted  for 
transport  to  the  hospitals  further  back. 

We  carried  quite  a  few  German  wounded  yesterday 
and  it  is  very  interesting  to  hear  their  ideas  about  things 
in  general.  Most  of  them  seem  to  be  in  great  perplexity 
about  why  we  declared  war.  Some  of  them  seem  like 
mere  boys  and  others  quite  old,  but  then  that  holds  for 
all  armies. 

It  is  almost  a  month  since  I  heard  from  America,  but 
then  I  know  how  busy  you  all  must  be  with  the  moving. 
Please  tell  Tom  that  the  second  package  of  tobacco  ha^ 
come  and  I  am  ever  so  grateful.  I  lost  my  passport  but 
have  another.  I  had  to  have  new  pictures  taken  and 
walked  all  over  Paris  on  a  hot  day  to  find  a  place,  hence 
the  expression. 

VI— STORY  OF  HOW  PERSHING  SAW  THE 
GERMANS  ATTACK 

(Told  by  J.  Welling  Lane,  with  American  Ambulance) 

The  writer  of  this  letter,  J.  Welling  Lane,  left  his 
place  with  the  hanking  firm  of  Montgomery,  Clothier  & 


With  the  American  Soldiers  357 

Tyler,  14  Wall  street.  New  York,  in  April,  1917,  to  go  to 
France  with  the  American  Ambulance.  He  had  served 
on  the  Mexican  border  with  the  First  Field  Artillery. 

France,  Aug.  23,  191 7. 
Dear : 

Well,  old  man,  I  can  certainly  tell  of  some  real  ex- 
periences now.  The  latest:  Last  night  we  had  an  air 
raid,  beginning  around  9  o'clock,  when  the  Boche  came 
over  and  dropoed  some  bombs,  trying  for  some  gun  po- 
sitions near  here,  then  at  exactly  12:30  a.m.  a  big  raid. 
There  must  have  been  at  least  five  machines  or  more 
came  flying  very  low  and  dropped  a  bomb  within  twelve 
feet  of  our  barracks,  wounding  one  of  the  boys  who  slept 
in  the  corner  nearest  the  bomb  in  the  bottom  of  his  heel. 
He  will  be  all  right  soon,  but  will  take  quite  some  time 
to  recover. 

It  is  a  wonder  to  all  he  did  not  get  it  anywhere  else. 
I  drove  him  to  the  hospital  with  our  Lieutenant  and 
waited  until  they  extracted  the  eclat,  and  am  keeping  it 
for  him.  It  went  through  the  wooden  wall,  through  the 
blankets  and  carried  a  piece  of  blanket  into  the  wound. 
Then  another  of  the  fellows  lying  opposite  received  a  hard 
scratch,  but  only  a  scalp  wound. 

Our  Brigadier,  or  Quartermaster,  who  keeps  tires,  etc., 
was  sleeping  in  a  little  shed  within  seven  feet  of  the  hit, 
and  when  we  all  rushed  over  we  heard  him  groaning, 
and  I  broke  in  the  door  to  find  him  on  the  floor.  He  was 
hit  in  three  places,  a  long  piece  in  his  side  and  one  little 
piece  piercing  his  backbone.  He  is  dead  now.  Our  bar- 
racks is  riddled  with  holes  from  the  eclat.  The  hole  is 
about  three  feet  deep  and  very  narrow,  the  eclat  spread- 
ing in  all  directions.  There  were  all  told  eight  bombs 
dropped  around  us. 


^rg  With  the  American  Soldiers 

Sept.  26,  1917- 

One  did  not  explode  and  can  be  seen  in  the  ground 
near  a  stable.  If  it  had  exploded  it  would  have  no  doubt 
killed  many  horses.  That  was  a  pretty  close  call  for 
all  of  us,  no  doubt  being  brought  on  by  the  new  gun 
position.  One  of  the  guns,  by  the  way,  was  the  one  that 
silenced  the  German  gun  that  used  to  shell  Dunkirk, 
being  able  to  shell  twenty  to  twenty-five  miles. 

We  just  gave  them  a  most  successful  attack  when 
every  objective  was  gained  besides  6,000  to  7,000  pris- 
oners—174  officers  were  taken.  We  assisted  Section  18 
of  the  American  Ambulance  and  I  worked  from  11 
o'clock  Sunday  to  Wednesday  at  7  ?•  M.,  and  during 
that  time  had  only  about  seven  hours  sleep,  -^ut  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  no  doubt,  the  excitement  and  all,  I  did 
not  feel  sleepy  or  tired  but  as  fresh  as  if  I  never  had 
worked.    We  secured  our  meals  after  a  fashion,  otten 

times  missing  some.  ,    .     .u      *t,o« 

The  wonderful  part  is  the  few  wounded  other  than 
very  slight  wounds  upon  the  French  side.  The  Boche 
said  the  artillery  work  was  awful.  One  English  speak- 
ing person  said  he  had  no  food  for  three  days  and  of  a 
battalion  of  1,000  men  only  twenty-one  were  left  Ihe 
food  they  are  getting  is  very  poor  and  very  little  and 
every  one  was  tickled  to  death  to  be  a  prisoner. 

Some  of  the  strangest  sights  were  the  Germans  work- 
ing as  brancardiens  helping  to  carry  the  wounded.  One 
instance  which  I  photographed  was  a  Boche  coming 
down  the  road  helping  a  wounded  Frenchman.  Another 
was  five  prisoners  coming  down  from  the  post  of  securs 
that  we  moved  up  to  as  soon  as  the  position  had  ad- 
vanced, which  before  was  on  the  three  line  trenches,  came 
down  the  road  without  any  guard  at  all.  They  just  told 
them  to  walk  to  the  next  village.    It  is  all  so  wonder- 


With  the  American  Soldiers  359 

f ul ;  never  have  I  been  so  close  or  in  such  an  interesting 
place. 

From  our  post  secours,  which  by  the  way  has  been 
advanced  again  to  the  spot  which  before  the  attack  was 
no  man's  land — you  can  see  all  the  French  lines  being  on 
the  side  hill,  the  Boche  positions  being  on  top.  Now 
advanced  about  four  kilometres.  This  attack  we  have 
been  through  makes  up  for  the  long  repose  we  have 
had.  Our  division  was  not  in  the  attack,  only  one  regi- 
ment, and  we  only  assisted  Section  18,  but  they  are  a 
vv^hite  livered  bunch  and  our  section  did  duty  continually 
while  they  sat  around  telling  their  weird  tales  of  gas  and 
having  to  work  so  long  without  sleep,  &c.  Far  from  the 
spirit  all  section  four  has,  who  were  fighting  all  the  time 
for  more  work.  All  the  time  grumbling  did  not  have 
enough. 

One  man  who  is  dying  now  1  heard  is  to  get  the 
Medaille  Militaire,  the  very  highest  honor  the  army  has, 
and  is  only  bestowed  upon  the  men  when  there  is  no 
chance  for  them.  Some  section  we  have,  haven't  we? 
Now  another  of  our  boys  will  receive  the  Croix  de 
Guerre  medal.  He  came  down  one  portion  of  the  road 
usually  shelled  with  three  couches  and  one  assis  on  the 
seat  beside  him.  As  he  came  down  they  were  dropping 
them  in.  The  boys  were  tiring  and  replacing  the  cars  in 
between  the  shots,  which  came  at  25^  minute  intervals, 
and  one  broke  near  him,  wounding  the  assis  beside  him. 

A  piece  of  eclat  caught  our  man  in  the  arm,  making  a 
slight  flesh  wound  and  leaving  a  piece  of  wood  in  it.  It 
had  passed  through  a  part  of  the  body  of  the  car  and 
blew  this  wood  into  him.  He  had  enough  gas  in  the 
feed  pipe  to  carr>^  him  about  a  hundred  feet  outside  of 
the  zone  when  another  of  our  section  cars  came  along 
and  iook  his  assis,  who  by  now  was  a  couche  down  for  a 
dressing.     Our  man   stopped  a  carrier  and  had  them 


360  With  the  American  Soldiers 

take  his  blesses  back  to  the  post  while  he  tried  to  start 
his  car,  but  was  unsuccessful.  He  ran  down  a  trench 
through  the  falling  shells  from  another  post  of  secours 
with  a  note  to  our  post  telling  that  everything  was  O.  K., 
and  the  wounded  taken  care  of.  They  took  him  to  the 
hospital,  and  he  is  now  back  with  us,  but  not  in  service 
for  a  while.    He  is  to  get  a  medal. 

We  are  certainly  being  hammered  up  a  bit,  but  think 
the  worst  is  over,  so  there  is  absolutely  no  need  to  worry 
about  me,  as  I  haven't  come  near  anything  yet.  Persh- 
ing and  Petain  were  down  the  road  while  the  attack  was 
on,  and  also  our  post  was  visited  by  a  Regular  American 
Army  Medical  Colonel  while  we  were  in  action.  It  is 
now  all  over  and  the  service  is  to  be  taken  over  by  the 
American  Army.  I  don't  know  what  difference  it  will 
make  with  us.  Since  last  night's  fracas  we  are  to  have  a 
guard  posted  all  night  to  warn  us  of  any  more  raids  so 
we  can  get  into  our  trench,  which  is  more  than  safe 
against  any  repetition. 

An  English  speaking  boche  gave  me  a  photo  postal 
card  of  himself  and  mate  and  gave  the  date  and 
place  and  signed  his  name.  I  have  a  boche  gas  mask 
and  many  buttons  and  shoulder-straps.  The  boches 
do  not  recognize  hospitals  plainly  marked  with  red 
cross,  since  they  threw  bombs  on  a  nearby  hospital,  burn- 
ing up  four  buildings,  killing  170  and  wounding  forty- 
one.  'Tis  one  of  the  hospitals  we  evacuated  too,  but  now 
is  being  evacuated  by  a  French  section.  A  British  sec- 
tion of  the  best  w'hich  has  been  in  this  section  with  the 
French  army  two  years  and  has  been  twice  cited  in  army 
orders  was  hit  and  one  couche  killed  and  four  were 
wounded  and  the  driver  only  a  slight  flesh  wound  during 
the  attack.  Strange  to  say,  so  many  ambulances  always 
come  clear.    Their  speed  helps.    Good  luck  to  you  all. 


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